Jan Allen Creative Writing Competition 2015 – Intermediate winner

Almost by Krista Ray

Usually in cliché movies the main character is sad and melancholy because they feel alone, and every single day the weather reflects their shitty mood; dark, broody, and messy. I guess I’m glad I live somewhere that is constantly sunny, because that way I’ll be able to see my shadow. A lot of people, most of the time children, are scared of shadows. The stories their parents read them make them believe the shadows are demons trapped in the darkness, coming to attack them in the cover of night. But no, for me my shadow is my only companion.
Ever since I was little, I never had friends. I tell myself I’m used to being alone, but I know that I’m not when I sit up at night contemplating whether or not I should just give up. And by that I don’t mean surrender in a simple game of cards or something. I mean cry mercy in this complicated game of life.
And even though my shadow sings me to a hollow insomniac’s nightmare I still felt void and alone while surrounded by malevolent devils and bloody angels.
I thought nothing could fix me. Well, I contradict myself here, but nothing can ever truly be fixed. The smashed vase may look repaired, but if someone looked close enough they can see the cracks.
You came along with your sunshine smile, and shaggy black hair, and your stupid dimples. With a few odd encounters and absurd accusations you found a tender spot in my heart. Out of all the girls you could have picked, all the girls that know they’re too perfect to ruin themselves, you swooped up the one with the insecurities and clumsy glue work. I was the vase left upon the table, the bearer of something more beautiful, but you looked past the flowers and found the cracks on my surface.
We were unorthodox, and sometimes ruthless, but we were a beautiful mess.
Love is not measured in the obvious things; not by the number of likes a picture of us gets on Facebook, or whether or not you text back that particular night. For us, it was measured in the rare moments where one of us would bear our soul like writing on a scripture, letting the other read the pen strokes of our story.
For us, it was on that day.
The day we walked until we were lost, but we never wanted to be found because we were so caught up in each other to care about everyone else. I had pointed out the way you would never chew on the end of your pencil, instead you’d gnaw the middle of it. And you pointed out the key that opened my lock.
“Why do you go to great lengths to walk in the sun?”
I could’ve filled libraries with the bullshit answers I’d given other people, but for you it took a mere moment.
“My shadow reminds me I’m not alone; that even if no one wants me, I’ll always have a companion. There may not be other shadows around, but my shadow has me.”
And you smiled that dastardly smile of yours, stardust eyes shining. Like Velcro you stuck your hand in mine, fingers wrapping around my sweaty palm. Your wrist might have rubbed against the rips in my parchment skin, but I didn’t flinch. You pointed at the ground and there was my shadow stretched out, but I was still unknown to what you were trying to say.
“See, my shadow is with yours.” You said as if it were obvious. “Now your shadow isn’t alone, and neither are you. Because I will never leave you.”
I didn’t believe you but you held your pinkie out and promised me.
For the rest of the day we walked so the sun was behind us and we could look forward to see our intertwined shadows.
I never told you I loved you.
You never told me you wanted to die.
When I was told you were gone, your soul scattered by your own hands; hands that wielded to many what was a simple blade, but to you it was a new road, I thought I hated you. You had been there when I wasn’t there for myself. Through the haze you shook me awake. Convinced me that I can live this life I was given.
It made me sick to think that while you were gluing the pieces of my broken glass back together, I could have been doing the same for you.
That day, I almost told you I love you.
And never before have I realised what a heartbreaking word almost is. It is unfair and unjust, making me regret things I shouldn’t. Almost is the word for falling from the edge of something beautiful, but not quite making it. I could have told you, I almost told you, but I didn’t and you never knew.
I never believed the stories or books whenever the ink on the pages claimed that, even if you’re gone, you’re still here with me. I thought it was ignorant, just a way to release a person from their grief and mourning.
But whenever I stay awake at night under the illusion that I am alone, I light a candle. It illuminates the room, and the flame flickers enough for my shadow to waltz slowly on the wall to a song of snapped heartstrings and shattered glass. And after months of trying, I finally realise what you meant by that promise you made.
That I may be alone, but at least my shadow isn’t, and that’s enough to make me stay.