Alone, maybe
The rest of the day passed by in a haze. The girl’s fickle memory was the shimmering, wavering, too-shiny mirage of a river that flowed and stopped and then flowed again before vanishing like it had never existed, and maybe it hadn’t.
She was following her brother, and maybe her hand was in his as he led her through the city. A blink, and a boy reached down to her in concern, and the girl had assured him that she was fine, and maybe he had believed her. The sun climbed up and the sky shifted and life smothered the narrow streets. She couldn’t recall how that had happened, or if there had always been so many people, but she didn’t mind. She never really minded anything. Another blink, and her brother was talking with an elderly woman who was frowning as he spoke, but thanked him with a smile and patted the girl’s head. It was impossible to recall what the woman had said through the fog in her head, or maybe she had never even heard her, but the airy, good feeling in her chest must mean that she made her happy. The sunlight that had gently streamed in through opened windows suddenly flooded the room, and the girl shielded her eyes from the harsh, harsh, harsh light, and she thought she almost, almost saw, in place of her brother, a boy with bright hair and bright eyes younger than herself. But then her vision cleared, and her brother was leading her away from the kind woman, and the sky was as dark as his hair.
The girl woke to muffled voices behind closed doors, the miserable fog still corroding her dull senses. She couldn’t recall how she got home.
“I thought she . . . getting better! Her dazes never lasted this long before.” That must be her brother. He sounded worried. It made her worried, too. Good things never happened when he was worried, and he always was, and a crease in his brow was present more often than not.
She stood in front of the opened door. Funny. She didn’t even realize she opened it.
Her mother was opening and closing drawers made of dark wood, the glass vials inside them clinking, and at the same time she was writing on a piece of parchment with her beautiful, loopy handwriting that the girl had always adored but could never replicate. She opened her mouth to respond and abruptly dropped her pen (which landed with a hard thud on the cold floor) when she saw the girl had woken up and was looking at her brother, her eyes dull, but a spark was fighting to make itself seen.
The girl took a deep breath. “Who did we visit yesterday? She seemed kind.”
Her brother kneeled down beside her, gently fixing her shirt. “That was one of Ms. Edith’s patients.” He stood and ruffled her hair.
“Oh. Is she doing well?” She batted his hand away, pouting slightly. “My hair’s messy now.”
He chuckled softly, but his warm expression flickered and died as concern darkened his face. “Physically, she’s doing okay. What I’m worried about is how she’s doing mentally. I wrote a report while you were sleeping. Do you want to see it?”
At her nod (because her brother was always so very detailed with his reports and she loved reading them, loved reading anything he penned, loved seeing what her brother thought), he fished a piece of parchment out of a drawer and handed it to her, then went to help Ms. Edith organize the medicines. The girl watched him, but eventually pulled a dusty stool from under the table and sat, skimming the old lady’s health report. A few particular lines caught her eye: Seems to enjoy Aster’s company. Eyes are clearer when she’s around and when she enjoys the bread from the bakery down the street. Possibly had a daughter that died young. An arrow connected the last sentence to a short scribble in the margins. It read: Does she remind her of someone she lost? Could Aster help with treatment?
The girl nearly fell over with how quickly she stood.
She looked at Ms. Edith and frantically blurted out, “Please let me help her. Please. I know I have my own problems, but she’s old, and she’s lonely, and it says she doesn’t seem to have many friends. Tell me how I can help her. I’ll do everything you say.”
Her heart pounded. I need to help her. Please let me help. I can’t let her die alone.
The feeling of dying alone — it was like she knew exactly how it felt. Dying with no one by her side and no one to mourn her, no one to remember her name or who she was or the once-bright, now-faded and fraying tapestry of her life, dying with her heart heavy, knowing she could’ve done better but chose not to, dying —
Alone.
Always.
Alone.
Thank you so much for taking the time to read! This story occurs right after my previous post, “A Little Bit of Light.”
Unfortunately, I currently don’t have access to a computer, so it won’t let me submit my work to a publication. I should have access to one soon!
