The Death of My Childhood
I was seven years old when I met him. It seems young now, but I remember it as a perfectly mature age. He was all of ten and the object of every little girl’s desire. He was the best-loved of the town-boys. I recall many girls fighting like mad cats for his affections. I’ve never been a lover of competitions and stayed far away from their battling frenzies.
He was always a loud, obnoxious child which did not particularly endear him to me. I hated any noise invading my personal space. One day, I excused myself from the town church service and hurried outside to fetch my baby sister’s bottle from the car. En route, I took the opportunity of being alone to belt out my favorite lyrics. Closing the door, I jumped in surprise. He was leaning against the vehicle in as much confidence as a now eleven-year-old could muster. His arms were crossed and his face marked with a sly grin. Blood rushed to my cheeks. His look said it all: “Aha, I’ve finally seen a crack in your shell.
From that moment, changes in our daily interactions appeared. He followed me around town just to open every door for me. He stole my diary and returned it to me with a note that he had enjoyed my poetry. He sat close to me and wouldn’t let any of the other boys near. Still, I was shy and wasn’t going to exert myself until I heard him say the words “I love you.”
When I was thirteen, I was swinging idly on the park bench, trailing one bare foot on the ground and the other knee tucked up close to the alarming developments occurring in my chest. Heavily absorbed in a nineteenth –century novel, I hadn’t realized that he was standing over me, calling my name. Frustrated, he knocked the book out of my hand and kept my hand in his grip.
“Why won’t you ever listen to me?” he protested.
I looked into his deep brown eyes. Instantly, I felt my soul seared by their vulnerable expression. He leaned forward quickly and planted a swift kiss on my chapped lips. It knocked the breath right out of me. We both waited hesitantly, started by the happening. Ducking his head abashedly, he dashed away.
We rarely spoke again, and we certainly didn’t exchange love you’s. I wonder what would have happened if we did. I focused on school work and preparing for college and developing my own little amateur business. He soon dashed off to explore the world, hiking through several obscure countries.
I’m sixteen now as I sit here in the town church. In the pew ahead of me, his following of lovers are sobbing violently. His coffin lies near the pulpit, shrouded in boquets, shut tightly—they said the car accident left his body terribly mangled. His parents comfort each other. I sit in the back with my family in the un-relatives section.
Tears escape from my eyes, and I struggle to contain them. Why should I mourn for him? Wouldn’t others despise me for weeping? They thought I only barely knew him.
An ache clutched at my heart. There is something I feel for him that can never be forgotten. I don’t know if you would call it love. I’ve never loved someone before. Did he still love me?
We form a line to express our condolences to his family. I pause for a moment. If this had been some cheesy movie, she would have handed me a three-page note discovered agmongst his belongings detailing how his sincerest affections for me magnified since that kiss. But his mother stares at me blankly. I give her the customary hug and pass by the coffin, running my palm along the oak edge. For just a minute, I imagined it to be a prominent cheekbone, mentally adding tanned leathery skin and the beginnings of a light brown beard.
I do not know if he loved me still or I, him. All I know is that he was the dearest part of my childhood. An abundance of cherished memories.
I bow my head in respect for the dead, the death of him and the death of my childhood. I raise my head, tears dried. This is my coming-of-age story.|||That was incredible! I love your style, its excellent! You really know how to grab the reader%26#039;s attention and make them want to read from beginning to end. I loved it. I liked the way you said %26quot;as I sit here, in the town church. In the pew ahead of me, his following of lovers are sobbing violently. His coffin lies near the pulpit,%26quot; you could have just said %26quot;he%26#039;s dead and I%26#039;m at his funeral%26quot; but you didn%26#039;t, you showed it in a really clever way.
But there is one thing, when she is at the funeral, you keep switching from past tense and present tense. I think you should read through it and make a few adjustments.
Other than that, I think you%26#039;ve got a great talent and you%26#039;ll go far with it.
Well done! You should be proud!
Best of luck in the future =)
xx|||It was a short short story. It could be longer, way longer. I barely had enough time to like/dislike the kid and you killed him. Maybe too fast without much details AND you need to expand how he affected you more (in life, not in his death) I would have liked more description of things. The word %26quot;fetch%26quot; is a old fashioned word and, well, it was an odd choice. Might I suggest you send it out to magazines that print flash stories. Duotrope is one you can google and look through Emagazines and such. Good luck|||Hm it is very good but I suppose you could add how she heard about the accident and how the boy%26#039;s family invited her to be at the funeral. Other than that it%26#039;s pretty good.:)|||wow! i love this! It%26#039;s a brilliant, fantastic piece of writing and fairly emotional. The only thing I would say is %26quot;en route%26quot; doesn%26#039;t really fit in with the style of the writing.
