I’ve had it for as long as I can remember. A cold, lifeless reminder of the family I never had — that’s all it is, and all it should be. Yet somehow, it’s so much more.
The humble little necklace with its lone jewel embedded at the bottom is all I have to remind me of my roots. It was my first and only significant present, having been given to me by my dying mother, desperate to give her newborn child something special before she passed from this world. My apathetic father took no notice of the trinket as he passed me along into foster care. I have no memoire of him, nor do I want one.
As soon as I was released from the hospital after my birth and entrusted to foster families, my life became an unstable enigma of atmospheres — some kind, caring; some indifferent and even negligible. I have traveled the nation in a search for a family who will accept me permanently. So far, however, my pursuit has been in vain.
My mother’s necklace is the one possession I have had my entire life. It is the only part of my life that has not changed, or left, or been torn from me altogether. Its weak, thin loops are frail in themselves, but when chained together they form a sturdy support for the jewel they bear. I like to imagine my life in an analogy to that necklace. My life has been segregated into uneven portions, due to my constant change of scenery, yet all of the segments add up to create something strong, resilient, and hopefully impregnable — my past. That in itself offers a secure mainstay for me, so that I can grow and prosper.
Sometimes, the weaker links of the chain of my past give out, sending my life into tumult. Whether it’s a psychological issue like childhood neglect stepping forward to bruise my present world, or something more extraneous like mundane temptations, somehow my past always finds a way to haunt me. I simply repair the chain and keep living.
Perhaps someday I will become as vibrant and lively as my necklace’s jewel. Until that day comes, however, I’ll dangle endlessly from the bottom of a chain of fragile bands.
You guys, I don't even know what this is… *dies* Gosh, this is just some weird inspiration thing I got while staring boredly at my laptop screen. I'm a failure at writing X.X
On a happier note, it seems I've finally recovered from my horrible case of writers' block. Which means more stories.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Saturday, November 24, 2012
The Shooting
A gunshot booms through the Jenson Middle School’s broad hallways, triggering screams and yelps of terror. As the reality of the noise creeps into the minds of the students, a deafening silence sweeps the building.
In Classroom 14A, Maddie Hopkins crouches alongside her twin sister, Ansley, among twenty other students. Her body rigid with fear, Maddie allows her wide eyes to scan the room in search of some form of condolence.
Footsteps echo outside the classroom, the sound magnified by the painful quiet that cloaked the school. Maddie glimpses a shadow flitting in the corner of the room. She swallows, terrified.
The door creaks slowly open, pausing for an ominous, dramatic effect. The frightened tension in the air is nearly tangible as the young students await their impending fate.
A shady figure, eyes bloodshot and surrounded by dark circles, enters the room with gun in hand. Maddie emits a tiny squeal of terror.
The armed teenager’s eyes swivel toward her. His eyebrows furrow, and in three short strides he is looming over her threateningly.
He leans down, and with his gun-free hand hoists her none-too-gently to her feet. She scrambles backward, petrified, but the teen pursues her.
A rough, blistered hand seizes her throat, and the cold barrel of a gun is pressed to her temple. Maddie freezes.
“W-what do you want…?” she whispers.
“I want you to confess something,” the deep, cold voice of the assaulter answers. “Tell me that there is no such thing as a God.”
Maddie’s heart falls. There’s no way I can say that, she thinks to herself. Jesus, help me be strong and bring You glory.
Out loud, she hesitantly replies, “I’m sorry, but I c-can’t —”
“There is no such thing as God. Admit it!” her attacker demands. “Admit it, or I’ll shoot!!”
Her eyes wide, Maddie swallows apprehensively. Her hands clutch at the man’s hands around her throat. Voice hoarse and rough, she begins to speak.
“I feel b-bad for you, you know.”
The silence that fills the classroom is overwhelming. The teenager’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“You don’t need to be doing this. I don’t know how or why, but somehow you’ve tricked yourself into believing that murdering us will help you. I can’t and won’t judge, because I don’t know what’s going on in your life, but I do know that this will solve none of your problems, no matter what they may be.”
She swallows again. Her throat is drying up from explicit terror, but Maddie knows she has to continue, for the sake of her and her peers’ lives.
“Please, listen to me. What do you think you’ll accomplish by ending my life? All you’ll do is earn yourself a reputation as a murderer, and set the police on your tail for the rest of your free life.
“This,” she gestures widely with her hands, “all of this is an idea that is not your own. Satan is trying to ruin both of our lives and I guess this is a perfect solution.”
Tears are streaming down her face now. She’s sure she’ll die for her impertinence, but the words won’t stop.
“Jesus, Jesus Christ our savior, wants your life to be meaningful. He created you to do wonderful things, but you can only accomplish them if you follow Him.
“My life is entirely in your hands. You can take my life, but I’ll just be reborn in a perfect world. God is all-powerful.”
She squeezes her watery eyes shut. “Jesus, I beg that you’ll steer this young man toward the light. He has been led astray, but you alone can save him. I know that his life has a purpose and that you want him to live a wonderful life brimming with happiness. I pray that you protect him from evil, and that you’ll bless him with a long life. Amen.”
When she opens her eyes, the man’s face before her is unreadable. He still clutches the trigger of his gun, his finger wavering ominously.
Maddie gazes at him with wide eyes, her expression not one of fear but of worry. She’s accepted her fate.
Suddenly, the gun is averted from her head to her forearm, and a thunderous boom echos through the classroom. Maddie screams as the bullet tears through her flesh, but bites her lip and does not cry.
The entire room has been thrown into pandemonium. Students are cowering behind chairs and desks, desperate to be shielded from the fresh threat.
The teenager has stuffed his gun into his front pocket and dashed toward the door. After throwing it open, he swivels to meet Maddie’s eye for a fleeting moment, and then he is gone.
Her arm is coated in a red, sticky substance. The girl tries not to be sick as she glances downward, and sinks to her knees. The initial shock of the pain has not yet faded, but she can feel its effects beginning to wear off. A horrible burning agony races through her arm, and she curls her fingers in pain.
Ansley leans over her, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her expression is locked in a horrified wail, and she dabs desperately at the blood seeping from her twin’s wound.
Maddie’s sight is wavering. Black splotches begin to fill her vision, and she can sense that her consciousness is short-lived, but through the anguish a grim smile forms on her lips. Thank you, Jesus, she prays silently. You saved my life.
In Classroom 14A, Maddie Hopkins crouches alongside her twin sister, Ansley, among twenty other students. Her body rigid with fear, Maddie allows her wide eyes to scan the room in search of some form of condolence.
Footsteps echo outside the classroom, the sound magnified by the painful quiet that cloaked the school. Maddie glimpses a shadow flitting in the corner of the room. She swallows, terrified.
The door creaks slowly open, pausing for an ominous, dramatic effect. The frightened tension in the air is nearly tangible as the young students await their impending fate.
A shady figure, eyes bloodshot and surrounded by dark circles, enters the room with gun in hand. Maddie emits a tiny squeal of terror.
The armed teenager’s eyes swivel toward her. His eyebrows furrow, and in three short strides he is looming over her threateningly.
He leans down, and with his gun-free hand hoists her none-too-gently to her feet. She scrambles backward, petrified, but the teen pursues her.
A rough, blistered hand seizes her throat, and the cold barrel of a gun is pressed to her temple. Maddie freezes.
“W-what do you want…?” she whispers.
“I want you to confess something,” the deep, cold voice of the assaulter answers. “Tell me that there is no such thing as a God.”
Maddie’s heart falls. There’s no way I can say that, she thinks to herself. Jesus, help me be strong and bring You glory.
Out loud, she hesitantly replies, “I’m sorry, but I c-can’t —”
“There is no such thing as God. Admit it!” her attacker demands. “Admit it, or I’ll shoot!!”
Her eyes wide, Maddie swallows apprehensively. Her hands clutch at the man’s hands around her throat. Voice hoarse and rough, she begins to speak.
“I feel b-bad for you, you know.”
The silence that fills the classroom is overwhelming. The teenager’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“You don’t need to be doing this. I don’t know how or why, but somehow you’ve tricked yourself into believing that murdering us will help you. I can’t and won’t judge, because I don’t know what’s going on in your life, but I do know that this will solve none of your problems, no matter what they may be.”
She swallows again. Her throat is drying up from explicit terror, but Maddie knows she has to continue, for the sake of her and her peers’ lives.
“Please, listen to me. What do you think you’ll accomplish by ending my life? All you’ll do is earn yourself a reputation as a murderer, and set the police on your tail for the rest of your free life.
“This,” she gestures widely with her hands, “all of this is an idea that is not your own. Satan is trying to ruin both of our lives and I guess this is a perfect solution.”
Tears are streaming down her face now. She’s sure she’ll die for her impertinence, but the words won’t stop.
“Jesus, Jesus Christ our savior, wants your life to be meaningful. He created you to do wonderful things, but you can only accomplish them if you follow Him.
“My life is entirely in your hands. You can take my life, but I’ll just be reborn in a perfect world. God is all-powerful.”
She squeezes her watery eyes shut. “Jesus, I beg that you’ll steer this young man toward the light. He has been led astray, but you alone can save him. I know that his life has a purpose and that you want him to live a wonderful life brimming with happiness. I pray that you protect him from evil, and that you’ll bless him with a long life. Amen.”
When she opens her eyes, the man’s face before her is unreadable. He still clutches the trigger of his gun, his finger wavering ominously.
Maddie gazes at him with wide eyes, her expression not one of fear but of worry. She’s accepted her fate.
Suddenly, the gun is averted from her head to her forearm, and a thunderous boom echos through the classroom. Maddie screams as the bullet tears through her flesh, but bites her lip and does not cry.
The entire room has been thrown into pandemonium. Students are cowering behind chairs and desks, desperate to be shielded from the fresh threat.
The teenager has stuffed his gun into his front pocket and dashed toward the door. After throwing it open, he swivels to meet Maddie’s eye for a fleeting moment, and then he is gone.
Her arm is coated in a red, sticky substance. The girl tries not to be sick as she glances downward, and sinks to her knees. The initial shock of the pain has not yet faded, but she can feel its effects beginning to wear off. A horrible burning agony races through her arm, and she curls her fingers in pain.
Ansley leans over her, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her expression is locked in a horrified wail, and she dabs desperately at the blood seeping from her twin’s wound.
Maddie’s sight is wavering. Black splotches begin to fill her vision, and she can sense that her consciousness is short-lived, but through the anguish a grim smile forms on her lips. Thank you, Jesus, she prays silently. You saved my life.
Sunday, November 11, 2012
One Last Day
A silvery cloud of rain shrouded the city, choking out the sun and discharging a general dreary atmosphere over the area. The morning was still, damp, and silent, as a very small percentage of its population had risen from bed to recommence a daily routine. What little light was provided was bleak and gray, and it seemed as though the day was destined to be gloomy and dismal.
Despite the overcast sky cloaking the town, Becca Patterson, sixteen years old, woke that morning with a light, free ecstasy fluttering in her chest. She sat up cheerily and stretched.
This is it, she mentally rejoiced. Tomorrow, I’ll be able to spend my day without worrying about him all along. Nothing could ruin this day for me.
The sophomore fell back on her bed with a plop, deciding to take a minute to meditate on the good fortune that was sure to befall her that evening.
The young girl’s father, an older man of fifty-seven years of age, had finally decided to retire from his position as head of the local police force. For years, Mr. Patterson had clung to his standing, considering it a substantial honor to risk his life daily for his beloved town, where he had been born and bred. Becca agreed wholeheartedly, but day after day of worrying for her wonderful father had eroded at her spirit, until she’d become nervous almost constantly. He’d miraculously managed to elude injury his entire career, but that didn’t stop her from fretting. When her father announced his decision to retire, her relief had been momentous. Her mother had died when she was four, and she and her dad were exceptionally close, most likely due to her mature nature.
Suddenly spurred on with energy-inducing enthusiasm, Becca leapt from her bed and scrambled to locate some decent clothes. She swabbed her face with a few dabs of makeup, hurriedly brushed her teeth, and scurried down the stairs.
Ryan Patterson, his dark hair streaked with gray, sat at the kitchen table with a steaming cup of coffee in hand. A sizable plate of bacon and pancakes was perched on the table before him. Becca’s stomach growled hungrily.
“Daddy!” she squealed, bounding across the room to glomp her father with a generous hug. Mr. Patterson tensed, taken by surprise, and then set his drink down to return the energetic embrace.
“Good morning, Becca,” the man smiled. “Did you have a good sleep?”
She bobbed her head enthusiastically, beaming. “Yeah, I did, but what about you? How are you feeling?”
His grin faded slightly, but quickly recovered. “I’m feeling great, sweetie. Thanks for asking.”
Becca frowned, her expression inquisitive. “What’s wrong?”
He leaned back slightly, breaking the wilting hug, and ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “Oh, nothing. Just a gut feeling, but I’m sure it’s no big deal.”
“Your gut feelings are never wrong, Dad. What is it?”
“I dunno, I just…It’s the weirdest sense of foreboding. I certainly hope it’s nothing.” Suddenly, he glanced up at the ticking clock and froze. “You’d better hurry if you don’t wanna miss your bus.”
“Shoot!”
Becca’s school day passed in a blur; all the classes and monotonous lectures seemed to blend until they were no more than an indiscernible smudge. The hardworking teen usually paid more attention than that, but she was just too hyper today. I hope I didn’t miss anything important.
As the dismissal bell rung, signaling her release to freedom, Becca hurriedly stuffed her books into her bookbag and raced through the quickly filling hallways. She was the first to evacuate the building, and impatiently tapped her foot in wait for the bus.
In the distance, a police siren wailed. The girl stiffened warily, her mind immediately expecting the worst for her father, but she soon shook herself from her scare. The alarm slowly faded into no more than a memory as the police car passed out of hearing range.
The old, paint-chipped bus creaked to a stop in front of her. Becca scrambled inside and curled up on a seat in the back, mentally willing the driver to hurry.
Thus began the long, tedious drive home. Becca rolled her eyes at the immature hooligans whooping wildly and talking in unnecessarily loud voices, and tried to shut out the noise. A spitball whizzed past her head, but she paid it and its origin no heed.
Ten minutes into the ride, a sudden vibration jolted her from her daze. The sophomore pulled her cellphone out of her jeans pocket, curious as to who would call. The number was blocked. Eye twitching irritatedly at the clamor surrounding her, Becca plugged one ear and held the phone to the other.
“Hello?”
“Miss Patterson?”
“Um, hi.”
“This is Molly, from your father’s police station. I hate to inform you that there has been a serious issue, and we will need you to be present at the station in thirty minutes. Is that alright with you?”
Becca’s stomach plummeted. What had happened? Why was she wanted at the station? Her voice croaking, she mumbled, “Y-yes ma’am. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, sweetie.”
Thirty minutes later, Becca sat in a chair in the station, her father’s most trusted accomplice before her. The officer’s cheeks were streaked with tears, cued by the news she’d just told delivered, but Becca felt no sadness. She felt nothing. Her brain was not working.
“Y…you’re saying he’s…”
The officer, a Delia Jones, swallowed visibly. “He’s in the hospital now, but they told me there’s not much hope. He w-was hit right in the throat, and people rarely recover from injuries like that…”
Her mind could not register the fact. Ryan Patterson could not be dead. He had survived his job all these years, why would he get hurt today?
“Becca, I’m so s-sorry…” The woman extended a shaky hand to rest on her shoulder. “Are you okay?”
“Am I okay? Am I okay??” she screeched, lurching backwards. “My dad is dead, of course I’m not okay! You were there. You were there, why didn’t you save him? Why didn’t you save him?!!”
Becca glared up at her from narrowed, hateful eyes. Delia’s cheeks were now thoroughly soaked, and the girl knew she was probably being too hard on her father’s deputy, but she didn’t care. Her two choices were anguish and fury, and it was so much easier to be angry right now.
“It’s all your fault he’s dead. I hate you.”
With that, the tears broke free. Becca sank to her knees in front of her chair, her lip quivering wildly. Fat droplets of salty water dripped from her chin, soaking her shirt and chilling her to the bone.
“I…I c-can’t…” She shook her head, eyes squeezed shut. “He can’t be gone. It’s not true. He’s…He’s my only family!”
Her eyes reflecting her same desolation, Delia lowered herself to her knees so that she was eye level with Becca. Tentatively, she reached out to wipe a glistening tear from the other’s cheek. “Sweetheart, listen to me. I know. It’ll all be alright. Before he was carried off to the hospital, he told me that you don’t have any other living family. Now, I’ve known you and your f-father for a long time, and I think he trusts me. He told me that he wants for you to stay with me, if you want that. What do you say?” she queried gently.
Becca shivered desolately. Staying with Delia would mean living with the biggest reminder of her father that she had, but where else would she go? It seemed to be her best option to accept, but maybe after her raging outburst, it would seem insensitive to do so.
“I…” She trailed off, her throat constricting. If her father had wanted her to stay with Delia, the least she could do was fulfill his last wish.
“Okay.”
…I'm a horrible person. xP Oh my goodness, my mind is so morbid…At least I didn't write the scene where he died, though, right?
Despite the overcast sky cloaking the town, Becca Patterson, sixteen years old, woke that morning with a light, free ecstasy fluttering in her chest. She sat up cheerily and stretched.
This is it, she mentally rejoiced. Tomorrow, I’ll be able to spend my day without worrying about him all along. Nothing could ruin this day for me.
The sophomore fell back on her bed with a plop, deciding to take a minute to meditate on the good fortune that was sure to befall her that evening.
The young girl’s father, an older man of fifty-seven years of age, had finally decided to retire from his position as head of the local police force. For years, Mr. Patterson had clung to his standing, considering it a substantial honor to risk his life daily for his beloved town, where he had been born and bred. Becca agreed wholeheartedly, but day after day of worrying for her wonderful father had eroded at her spirit, until she’d become nervous almost constantly. He’d miraculously managed to elude injury his entire career, but that didn’t stop her from fretting. When her father announced his decision to retire, her relief had been momentous. Her mother had died when she was four, and she and her dad were exceptionally close, most likely due to her mature nature.
Suddenly spurred on with energy-inducing enthusiasm, Becca leapt from her bed and scrambled to locate some decent clothes. She swabbed her face with a few dabs of makeup, hurriedly brushed her teeth, and scurried down the stairs.
Ryan Patterson, his dark hair streaked with gray, sat at the kitchen table with a steaming cup of coffee in hand. A sizable plate of bacon and pancakes was perched on the table before him. Becca’s stomach growled hungrily.
“Daddy!” she squealed, bounding across the room to glomp her father with a generous hug. Mr. Patterson tensed, taken by surprise, and then set his drink down to return the energetic embrace.
“Good morning, Becca,” the man smiled. “Did you have a good sleep?”
She bobbed her head enthusiastically, beaming. “Yeah, I did, but what about you? How are you feeling?”
His grin faded slightly, but quickly recovered. “I’m feeling great, sweetie. Thanks for asking.”
Becca frowned, her expression inquisitive. “What’s wrong?”
He leaned back slightly, breaking the wilting hug, and ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “Oh, nothing. Just a gut feeling, but I’m sure it’s no big deal.”
“Your gut feelings are never wrong, Dad. What is it?”
“I dunno, I just…It’s the weirdest sense of foreboding. I certainly hope it’s nothing.” Suddenly, he glanced up at the ticking clock and froze. “You’d better hurry if you don’t wanna miss your bus.”
“Shoot!”
Becca’s school day passed in a blur; all the classes and monotonous lectures seemed to blend until they were no more than an indiscernible smudge. The hardworking teen usually paid more attention than that, but she was just too hyper today. I hope I didn’t miss anything important.
As the dismissal bell rung, signaling her release to freedom, Becca hurriedly stuffed her books into her bookbag and raced through the quickly filling hallways. She was the first to evacuate the building, and impatiently tapped her foot in wait for the bus.
In the distance, a police siren wailed. The girl stiffened warily, her mind immediately expecting the worst for her father, but she soon shook herself from her scare. The alarm slowly faded into no more than a memory as the police car passed out of hearing range.
The old, paint-chipped bus creaked to a stop in front of her. Becca scrambled inside and curled up on a seat in the back, mentally willing the driver to hurry.
Thus began the long, tedious drive home. Becca rolled her eyes at the immature hooligans whooping wildly and talking in unnecessarily loud voices, and tried to shut out the noise. A spitball whizzed past her head, but she paid it and its origin no heed.
Ten minutes into the ride, a sudden vibration jolted her from her daze. The sophomore pulled her cellphone out of her jeans pocket, curious as to who would call. The number was blocked. Eye twitching irritatedly at the clamor surrounding her, Becca plugged one ear and held the phone to the other.
“Hello?”
“Miss Patterson?”
“Um, hi.”
“This is Molly, from your father’s police station. I hate to inform you that there has been a serious issue, and we will need you to be present at the station in thirty minutes. Is that alright with you?”
Becca’s stomach plummeted. What had happened? Why was she wanted at the station? Her voice croaking, she mumbled, “Y-yes ma’am. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, sweetie.”
Thirty minutes later, Becca sat in a chair in the station, her father’s most trusted accomplice before her. The officer’s cheeks were streaked with tears, cued by the news she’d just told delivered, but Becca felt no sadness. She felt nothing. Her brain was not working.
“Y…you’re saying he’s…”
The officer, a Delia Jones, swallowed visibly. “He’s in the hospital now, but they told me there’s not much hope. He w-was hit right in the throat, and people rarely recover from injuries like that…”
Her mind could not register the fact. Ryan Patterson could not be dead. He had survived his job all these years, why would he get hurt today?
“Becca, I’m so s-sorry…” The woman extended a shaky hand to rest on her shoulder. “Are you okay?”
“Am I okay? Am I okay??” she screeched, lurching backwards. “My dad is dead, of course I’m not okay! You were there. You were there, why didn’t you save him? Why didn’t you save him?!!”
Becca glared up at her from narrowed, hateful eyes. Delia’s cheeks were now thoroughly soaked, and the girl knew she was probably being too hard on her father’s deputy, but she didn’t care. Her two choices were anguish and fury, and it was so much easier to be angry right now.
“It’s all your fault he’s dead. I hate you.”
With that, the tears broke free. Becca sank to her knees in front of her chair, her lip quivering wildly. Fat droplets of salty water dripped from her chin, soaking her shirt and chilling her to the bone.
“I…I c-can’t…” She shook her head, eyes squeezed shut. “He can’t be gone. It’s not true. He’s…He’s my only family!”
Her eyes reflecting her same desolation, Delia lowered herself to her knees so that she was eye level with Becca. Tentatively, she reached out to wipe a glistening tear from the other’s cheek. “Sweetheart, listen to me. I know. It’ll all be alright. Before he was carried off to the hospital, he told me that you don’t have any other living family. Now, I’ve known you and your f-father for a long time, and I think he trusts me. He told me that he wants for you to stay with me, if you want that. What do you say?” she queried gently.
Becca shivered desolately. Staying with Delia would mean living with the biggest reminder of her father that she had, but where else would she go? It seemed to be her best option to accept, but maybe after her raging outburst, it would seem insensitive to do so.
“I…” She trailed off, her throat constricting. If her father had wanted her to stay with Delia, the least she could do was fulfill his last wish.
“Okay.”
…I'm a horrible person. xP Oh my goodness, my mind is so morbid…At least I didn't write the scene where he died, though, right?
Friday, November 9, 2012
Penny
Perhaps I am too old to be making wishes on pennies tossed hopefully into a “wishing” fountain, but is one ever too old to dream? Maybe my request will be granted, and maybe not, but it never hurts to try.
With that said, I’ll state my wish.
In the past, I wished for earthly, temporal things; for example, the newest toy or a few stray dollars. Sometimes my desire was less than secular, when I asked for nothing more than a couple hours of bonding time with my workaholic father, or perhaps for a friendship shattered to be mended again.
Now, my mind is more mature and knowledgeable than it was thirty years ago. To some, my wish might be considered egotistical or selfish, but, in all honesty, I mean to commit no sin when I ask this one small favor.
I wish to see.
For eleven years now, my eyes have been blind and barren, dead and useless to me in their lifeless sockets.
I wish to know.
I want to know what it is like to gaze over a moonlit scene, my unscathed eyes twinkling in the starlight.
I wish to forgive myself.
Years ago, I had plenty of opportunity to take in the majestic sights of the world. Instead of greedily scouring the world for visual beauty, I, in my ignorant youth, took my eyesight for granted. I could have imprinted the image of panoramas into my mind, could have even glanced at a couple more photos of the world’s beauty, at the very least, but instead I chose to waste my youthful health amongst empty bottles and self-implied, pointless danger.
One of those meaningless risks cost me my sight, and I don’t believe I’ll ever forgive myself for my stupidity.
With this penny, this simple copper coin, I beg forgiveness for assuming sight to be a delicacy that would always be available to me. This penny, the most inferior of coins, binds me to a promise that my ways will be changed. I solemnly swear, this penny as my proof, that the blessing of sight will never be lost on me again, if I should be so lucky as to receive a miracle.
Now, there is nothing left to do but release the single penny, which so bravely represents all my wishful hopes and dreams, into the swirling waters of the fountain.
Be strong, little penny. Thank you.
Plop.
The copper penny sinks slowly into the shallow fountain, finally stopping to rest atop a small hill of coins much like itself. It joins its coequals in their endeavor, their struggle to reflect the wishes placed upon them through the golden sun that shines brilliantly down upon them. A new flurry of light enters the jumble of dancing light, leaping to and fro along the fountain’s sides as the water moves all around. Another wish has been cast, and one more soul will, perhaps, be satisfied soon.
With that said, I’ll state my wish.
In the past, I wished for earthly, temporal things; for example, the newest toy or a few stray dollars. Sometimes my desire was less than secular, when I asked for nothing more than a couple hours of bonding time with my workaholic father, or perhaps for a friendship shattered to be mended again.
Now, my mind is more mature and knowledgeable than it was thirty years ago. To some, my wish might be considered egotistical or selfish, but, in all honesty, I mean to commit no sin when I ask this one small favor.
I wish to see.
For eleven years now, my eyes have been blind and barren, dead and useless to me in their lifeless sockets.
I wish to know.
I want to know what it is like to gaze over a moonlit scene, my unscathed eyes twinkling in the starlight.
I wish to forgive myself.
Years ago, I had plenty of opportunity to take in the majestic sights of the world. Instead of greedily scouring the world for visual beauty, I, in my ignorant youth, took my eyesight for granted. I could have imprinted the image of panoramas into my mind, could have even glanced at a couple more photos of the world’s beauty, at the very least, but instead I chose to waste my youthful health amongst empty bottles and self-implied, pointless danger.
One of those meaningless risks cost me my sight, and I don’t believe I’ll ever forgive myself for my stupidity.
With this penny, this simple copper coin, I beg forgiveness for assuming sight to be a delicacy that would always be available to me. This penny, the most inferior of coins, binds me to a promise that my ways will be changed. I solemnly swear, this penny as my proof, that the blessing of sight will never be lost on me again, if I should be so lucky as to receive a miracle.
Now, there is nothing left to do but release the single penny, which so bravely represents all my wishful hopes and dreams, into the swirling waters of the fountain.
Be strong, little penny. Thank you.
Plop.
The copper penny sinks slowly into the shallow fountain, finally stopping to rest atop a small hill of coins much like itself. It joins its coequals in their endeavor, their struggle to reflect the wishes placed upon them through the golden sun that shines brilliantly down upon them. A new flurry of light enters the jumble of dancing light, leaping to and fro along the fountain’s sides as the water moves all around. Another wish has been cast, and one more soul will, perhaps, be satisfied soon.
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