Short Story: Secrets

So I was just looking through my existing folders on my computer, digging up some old stories I might be able to use as a Short Story in a competition with a close deadline, and I found this. Deleting and editing some stuff, I came out with this. Just a little something, tell me what you think yeah?

Secrets:

The gazing heat of the sun embraced my cheeks as I left the protection of the trees.

That warmth reminded me of her, her perfect face, beautiful hair and unique personality, but mostly, her secrets.

Only I knew the secrets she kept.

Only I had the ability to maintain it, grasp it within my heart and stop myself from dropping to my weak knees and screaming out the truth.

That’s why she had trusted me.

And I was glad that she had told me.

But I was not pleased at what she had told me.

The things she had done, the places she had been, the people she had met.

Though instead of stopping her, I just listened patiently, unable to speak, unable to move, unable to stop it from entering my dense, absorbing mind.

Intensively I had waited for it to stop, when, in reality, it never would. Not until that cold, November evening, the early snow expressing what was about to happen.

Yet here I was bathing in the glare of the sun as my weak dainty tears fell down my aging face, only holding an inch of my true sadness. I sighed. I’d grown up a strong person, and I’d learnt to live with her burden, yet here I was, letting everyone see the cracks in my soul.

I should have been stronger.

For myself. For her.

I still remember when we met, a casual accident that occurred outside a coffee house amidst rush hour. She bumped into me. I bumped into her. A week later, we lay together in a warm bed, passionately kissing.

From there, we would laugh, we would cry, but most of all, we would have fun.

But now that’s over. Like someone had wiped my life clean with a cloth. A cloth engulfed with hopelessness and confusion.

Because know she is gone.

And I am alone.

But whose fault is it?

How was I supposed to know what lay on the other side of the door? That night I had expected everything to be special, the bright light of our relationship which would overshadow the dark things she had done.

But all I can remember is her screaming.

Each time I wake up in a cold sweat, her screams are to blame.

‘Please’ I would cry; my voice embedded in desperation and terror. ‘Please. Please don’t do this.’

But they refused to listen. They just wanted to know the truth. The truth she had worked so hard to mute, travelled so far to hide and dug so deep to bury. And even with death staring her blankly in the face, she refused to let it go, she refused to answer the question.

Because her secrets. They were the answer.

But the answer isn’t always easy to understand.

But I understood it; I had the answer in the clutches of my shaking hands.

It was easy. Tell them the truth, save her life, and yet…

I couldn’t do it.

The way she looked. All that hard work suddenly evaporated from her brunette eyes and before I knew it, a decision was made. I did it for her right?

It wasn’t my fault, it was hers?

Confusion.

Sadness.

Loneliness.

When I felt her cold body, and when I feel the sun beating down at me, the decision I made, the decision she made, haunts me again.

I should have spoken, I should have saved her.

But it was too late.

Far too late.

Now she was alone too.

Now, she was dead.

—

Thanks for reading,

H.I. (Tom)

Explore posts in the same categories: Writing

Tags: Secrets, Short Story, Writing

You can comment below, or link to this permanent URL from your own site.