This is something I wrote for school called Robinson, I hope you like it!
Names weigh nothing in times like these,
that is why I will tell you my story first.
My life started ending when I was back in my home town of Boston,
Massachusetts. My family had left me at a friend’s house for the day, I was
only eight at the time, while they went into town to go to the festival. The train went off its tracks and blew to
smoking flames when it hit the bottom of the valley. Eight and an orphan, I
didn’t know what had happened for three days, because that is when the paper
came boasting about how a city had made it past the flames of burnt iron
slamming the floor. This was the first of three deaths in the end of my life.
The second came years later when I was around the age of 15. Flashbacks
of losing my parents and sister then moving to Romania 7 years earlier still
flooded my mind. I lived with my Great Aunt those seven years. I had become
heard even though her fresh baked bread tasted like heaven as its sweet smell
filled the sometimes cold house. I wasn’t completely alive any more, I had lost
too much. Cinders of pain slept on my back, I was always tense, and no one
could touch me. My Great Aunt loved me any way, though we never saw eye to eye.
We were the only family we had left and that was enough for her.
She died of a shuddering halt of her heart we think. No one knows for
sure. Old age maybe? But who really cares now? She was 89, and I was 15, and
again I was alone. I visited her grave every Sunday afternoon though. Somehow I
felt more at home sitting on the stripped earth on the cemetery. The smell old
molded old flowers filled the air, the cold stone enchanted me with its
beautiful engravings. Just a boy in a cemetery, simple enough right? If that’s
what you think, then you aren’t looking hard enough. I was the boy who saw
death in life and life in death. Nothing could please me. Nothing.
There was one Sunday though when I didn’t go in the afternoon. I was 17,
and I was too intrigued by the night to go while it was light out. Someone told
me a ghost story, I had to see it. There was nothing and no one to stop me.
When I stepped through the familiar gates chills shuddered down my spine,
gripping every muscle and tearing from the bone slightly, then replacing them.
The stories were true, and the assumption had more to them. A pale blue figure danced about, shimmering a
few inches above the path ahead of me. A clear cloth clung to it, just a wisp
in the undead wind of silence. After
approaching it, I was never the same. I was fully alive again. It was a girl,
who had been 15 for 300 years, and she was beautiful.
I became ill a few months later. I became weaker, and I wasn’t hungry
any more. I died a quiet death in a lonely hospital room, but that was okay.
She was waiting for me at my final resting place. And thus I went through the
third and final death of the end of my life, and yet it can also be viewed as
the beginning it.
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