by Joe Stanley
3
He couldn’t move. He couldn’t see or hear. Though he couldn’t breathe, he could smell the dirt and taste it. He was cold and it felt like he was being crushed.
He was angry. He wondered why his pain wouldn’t end. It made him so mad that he wanted to hate her. Somehow it made him feel better but he knew that it also made him worse. It made him just like her, just as bad.
He was scared. He thought of his mother and sister and was terrified to realize he couldn’t remember them anymore. He was afraid of where they might be, somewhere in the ground like he was.
The rage and fear seemed to grow forever. In silence, they seemed to fester inside his soul. It was so wrong that things had to be this way. Now it was done, and nothing could ever change it.
At last his heart moved on, but only to a darker place. He was so sad, but he couldn’t cry because he had no more tears. He understood that he didn’t need tears to cry, not when the pain was like this. He knew this kind of pain was the kind that lasts forever.
He felt like he was sinking, like he was drowning in a pool of darkness. At the same time, it was a flood that was filling him with its heavy weight. As the blackness rose, his heart disappeared in its inky depths. He was fading into his anger, fear and sadness.
He wondered if there would be anything let of him when it was through.
He tried once more as oblivion swallowed him, searching the silent and cold darkness for any spark of light and warmth. He began to break apart, fading into little flashes of nothingness.
“I’m sorry…” he thought into the darkness, “I love…”
“I…”
Into the void, one last time, he tried. To his sister, to his mother, to his grandmother, and even to Ms. James, he called, “I love you.”
Then he let go.
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