The innocent can never last
Wake me up when September ends –
Groaning, she picked up her phone. ‘Another 5 minutes.’
5.01 am, 20th September – 20th September.
Her breath caught in her throat as her mind registered the date. It glared at her, the words imprinting themselves into her mind. It was that time of the year again. Shutting her eyes, she pulled up the covers- hiding, sheltering herself from what she knew would come next. ‘If only. If only if onlyifonly.’ Guilt hit like a blow to the stomach, knocking all the breath out of her, leaving her gasping for air.
As the pain subsided, she pushed herself up on her bed, angling herself so her feet could search for her bedroom slippers. Cold, the floor was. She hugged herself, debating whether to creep back into bed, or – no, she had to do this. She had to. Hand on the knob, she pulled her bedroom door open, listening for any signs of life. But the house was silent, dead as usual in the ungodly hours of morning. Silently, she made her way to the room.
If it had seemed cold before, that was nothing compared to the room she was in now. Shivering, she was. Or maybe it was just the lack of life in the room. The bare walls, the lack of furniture. It was empty, except for the huge cupboard in the corner. Steeling herself, she swung the doors open.
The musty smell of things long untouched greeted her. Puffs of dust, cobwebs. Then the sight of rows and stacks of boxes. Labelled boxes, unlabelled boxes. New boxes, old boxes. Boxes of all shapes and sizes. Just boxes, boxes and more boxes. Kneeling, she pulled out the first one.
‘Clothes’, it read. Carefully, she peeled off the cellotape. Folded neatly, was his clothing- tees, shirts, sweaters. Sweaters. Rummaging through the box, she searched for it. His favourite sweater. Her fingers closed around something that felt like it, and she pulled it out in triumph. She buried her face in it, breathing in his scent. Surprisingly, it still lingered so strongly, even after so many years- as though like her, it just didn’t want to let go. She pulled it over her head and put it on, immediately feeling warmth enveloping her. You know, how some things are so familiar? Like a hug from your parents, the sound of their voice, the lyrics to your favourite song? This warmth, she knew. The warmth of her parents’ laughter, their smiles. The warmth of a memory from 12 years ago. She’d put on this sweater- knowing it was too big for her but that never mattered anyway- and she’d drag it around the house. ‘Sweeping the floors’, mummy had called it –
Cue tear #1.
– And daddy had just laughed.
Cue tear #2.
He’d picked her up then, swinging her around. She giggled, and he put her down and started tickling her till she squealed with laughter. ‘Who’s my favourite little girl?’ His voice still rang in her ears.
