There used to be a time when I would sneak out in the night's heart and run on the hill next to grandmother's house, the one we named " Honey ", where we spent most of our summer days generous of laughter and delight. We even celebrated my thirteenth there, and you spoke how I am about to finish my childhood and begin my puberty, granting me the last wish as a careless kid, any my soul desires, and my spirit seeks. The praise of the materialistic world never interested me. My soul always has been desiring knowledge and my spirit... it has always been seeking freedom. The rapidity of my bloodstream vastly increased as I was struggling to modulate the words of my wish, while the wild tension hidden in my body crushed the strongest bones, but I revealed the urge I was carrying " Answer me this: Do you miss those stars radiating off the sweetest drop of fantasy, being a child embraced by innocence whose mind loads with countless bullets of the imagination, who can create the unspeakable? ". You held a moment to respond as you did not prepare for harsh truths. You looked you were wandering through an empty battlefield, full of hurtful years, trying to make sense out of the future yet to come if there shall be a future for those immortal ashes floating, surrounding the silent camp. For once I compared you with the naive misery and the inexpensive sadness, not knowing how to react, not realizing a simple question based on a child's curiosity could open the Pandora box tied around your drowning self. I ran. Before that moment I have never seen your crying, which meant the portrait of happiness I kept building shattering into million pieces that will sting me until I arrive on my awaiting deathbed. I was not ready for it. You hunted for me in the neighbourhood for the entire day and when you gave up, you heard the noise of a glass breaking. You opened the door and there I was, lying in my bed. Neither of us conversed, but I felt your presence in the room for that whole endless night. You deserved a confession of where I went, but nanna implored me not to tell you I hid at hers. She could not erase the terrifying screams when you desperately, still hopelessly busted in shouting my name, praying you put a stop to your search. I asked her for pictures with you. She refused as you made her promise not to talk about your youth, but then I told her about the desperation I sensed within your grief and the anguish you have surrounded yourself with for a tiny second, she let me look through each of your albums, but she did not mention any stories behind any photographs. I depicted my own stories out of them, your memories, but she did not betray you, she did not reveal a word of your youth. As for how I entered the house, she borrowed me a key from the back door, the one behind my room you constantly locked. In exchange, I did chores for her twice a week and fed Empress, the horse, when she would be out of town. Once, she asked me why we climb Honey so often, but I could not think of an answer. I looked at her and continued to wash the dishes. She giggled, seeming as it was her first time laughing, a high pitched, odd, strident laughter, telling me not to mind her; she was reflecting on herself as a thunder of remembrances struck through her and I kept wondering, like you, what sustains an eminent individual whole and for how long.
A day which brings me humour and contours a humble chuckle on my timid lips is when we got chased after dozens of bees. We attempted to shield ourselves with the blanket which ironically had traces of honey on it. Then, we concluded we must roll down the hill, the only issue being the River that was waiting for us to bathe in. I never learned how to swim. You tried teaching me multiple times, but I have always been stubborn, even at that moment when you exclaimed, " The only choice we have! Besides getting stung ". I took my heart into my teeth and I rolled down the hill with you. I can still recall Nature's manner of touching my skin and its voice as an echo in my ears " You are protected ". The gentle Grass tickled my cheeks, wiping my terrified tears off, but once the crystalline drops of water tingled over my spine, I did not give them any thought anymore as I could not identify the difference between my delicate fears and a peculiar feeling of safety my body filled with. The River had her own pair of piercing blue eyes and they were looking straight through my fearful iris. She was arctic, yet sympathetic, demanding the Sun to come closer and treat our wound. We were shivering as a fantastic beast. That was when I realised how little separates humankind from the Animal Kingdom, but I cared, counting each precious second we had together, imitating soldiers fighting for the present. I sought to glance at the positives, as you taught me since my earliest breath. You gently, somehow rapidly grabbed my hands to make sure I will not get too far away from you as the heavy current made us both lose control over our movement, but in between those worries, there was a luxurious which always has been rich in purity as you were not from our world. You have suited the role of a Fairy since the beginning of your days, but nobody had the courage to admit it to you as your passion and kindness were beyond our primitive instincts.
I would sneak out and climb to the top until the whole River would be in my vision. I admired its greatness in excitement every night; the source of my cowardly strength, of my childish emotions and her power over my idealistic thoughts. There was an exception, a night when I heard screaming. Agony. I hastened to the River, and I spotted a weary woman. She was trying to throw rocks, but her arm was not moving much and when she missed the uncertain target she screamed. I felt clueless, how I should act or behave, being frightened, but you lectured me about the beauty of the risk, its pride and how one should proudly assume it. Keeping a distance, I showed myself to her.
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This was the very first short story I wrote in English. I want to continue it, but probably it will take a while as most of the times I start projects without finishing the previous ones.
YOU ARE READING
The Taste of Honey
Short StoryAn amateur with insomnia depicting emotions. A collection of short stories. Thanks @Miruna_Gabriela_ for the cover x
