Author: Written Blood PM
Willow's death and aftermath, from the perspective of Amelia O'Keefe.Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Family/Tragedy - Amelia O. & Willow O. - Words: 713 - Reviews: 3 - Favs: 2 - Published: 08-22-12 - Status: Complete - id: 8454602
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Hello! Thanks for all the reviews on If The FAYZ Had Facebook. Apologies, I won't be updating until about October, since I have an exam coming up.
I've changed my pen name (as you can see), and I'm sorry if it has caused any confusion and/or inconvenience.
I take a step back to admire my half-finished painting. I've been working on it for hours now—and it's been worth it. I've made sure to add in every single detail, especially the birches.
When I see the lake in the corner of my eye, I think of Emma. How we used to be best friends. How we would talk together about the most ridiculous things and not care about anything anyone ever said about us. Us skating together, like sisters, just her and me, against the world.
That lake, it brings back memories. Things I don't want to think of. Of Emma. Piper. The lawsuit and the good times I had with you.
You would never skate—ever. I could pretend all I wanted, but I'd just be denying you and myself the truth.
I look back at the lake. And that's when I notice it. A hole in the middle of the ice; cracks around the edges, like a spider's web.
"Willow!" I shout. I run, abandoning my painting. I can see your body, floating beneath the ice; lifeless.
I kneel at the edge of the lake, screaming your name, pounding the ice with my fists. The ice cracks, like a shattered glass window. My hands are shaking, but I plunge my arms into the water, reaching for you.
Cold. That's all I feel. Cold and numb. Due to your small size, I pull you out of the water with ease. Laying you on the ground, I grab your wrist, checking for your pulse.
God, this isn't happening, I think. God, please, no.
My heart hurt, like someone had stabbed me with a knife, twisted it, and stabbed me again. This couldn't be happening. It couldn't happen. Any moment now, you would wake me up, tapping me gently—so you wouldn't break your bones—asking me if I was all right.
It doesn't happen.
On February 18th, it snowed in the Sahara Desert.
All your pointless facts come flooding back to me. I need you to get up, telling me how funny my reaction had been, and that you weren't dead.
The smallest trees in the world are Greenland dwarf willows.
I place a hand on the left side of your chest. There is no heartbeat, not even the slightest rise and fall of your chest.
There is nothing.
I cannot tell you how hard it was, after your death. Mom would lock herself in the bathroom for hours on end, crying, with the water turned on, thinking I wouldn't be able to hear her. Dad would work overtime, just so he wouldn't have to return to a house that seemed too empty for us.
A snowflake can take up to an hour to land.
Mom would look for signs. Star constellations, household objects that were arranged such that they might've spelled out your name.
There are more than 400 species of weeping willow trees.
That lake you drowned in, Mom would refuse to look at it. It was too painful a reminder—something we wouldn't ever want to remember.
Sometimes, when I was on my own, in my bedroom, through the corner of the window, from the corner of my eye, I would think I might've seen you there at the lake, miraculously skating across the ice with the grace of an Olympic gymnast.
All snow crystals are hexagonal.
On the night of your death, it had snowed. My painting lay abandoned on the ground; I never touched it again. It reminded me too much of you.
Weeping Willow trees lose their leaves in the fall.
Snow did what it did best, and what it only would do: Fall.
Just like you did.
Thanks for reading this!
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