The thing about time is that it was never on my side, never my friend. I stretched myself in its rubber band wishfully thinking to prolong the moments, the sumptuous jubilance which imbued a sense of peace within me. Since always the horror of an end had seemed ridiculous to me—as certainly it did to everyone else—but I never thought that the elastic would break and I'd end up hurting myself along the way. It proved me wrong so early in life.

For it seemed like a few moments ago when I was just seven, clutching Hope's trembling hand in mine with as much energy as I could muster, mewling and crying, desperately hoping for an escape from mom's virulent actions. And now I was standing there, surrounded yet alone, wishing for yet another escape.

The horror of an end loomed in a cataclysmic glory, and although it wasn't mine yet it felt dreadful all the same.

A few yards before me stood Hope; veiled in black that sharpened the senses, intensified the pain. There she remained between a crowd of faceless strangers who reminisced over the ephemera of the past. It fixated her as a cynosure of all the eyes saturated with pity, of all the words that dripped from their tongues soaked in fake sympathies.

"Poor, poor child," they lamented, "such a great loss."

And I wanted her to scream: no. I wanted her to say: I am not poor. I don't need the pity. And I wanted to shout too: don't you people see her father, her sister standing with her?

But I chewed on my words and swallowed them before they could bubble out of my mouth. It wasn't my place. And Hope didn't speak as well. Her shoulders stooped further beneath the burden of sorrow and grief, hushing her to a stilled quietness; the kind that isn't always golden. The kind that signifies a defeat, the end of a war that isn't even fought.

And so I just stood, not mourning or crying or doing anything I was supposed to. Not knowing what to do, I stood confused. I didn't grieve over my mom's loss. I didn't close my eyes nor remembered her youthful smile when they buried her underneath or read her epitaph. For I didn't have a fond memory of her that I could hold onto in this moment of dire need. There was nothing that could make me feel the asphyxiating pain.

It felt like all the emotions were sucked away from me, leaving nothing but a deep, achingly numb hole. Still I knew her enough to have her ingrained in my heart.

The sun was shy behind the horizon, casting myriads of shades over the steel-gray sky when black would've been much better. It was a shame, how the fascinating summery colours seemed to forever remain tinged with the sorrows of the human world.

I barely noticed when dad placed a hesitant arm around me, and there, tucked underneath his other side was Hope. She looked at me, as one looks at the sea and wonders how long it would take to dissolve him completely, and her bottom lip quivered and her eyes dropped. She appeared too tired to frown.

And dad, oh dad.

Supporting a three day stubble on his ghastly face, he resembled a battlefield. It was one of those few times when he let his inner turmoil show, when his eyes unglazed and uncovered the bruises formed within.

Together the three of us walked toward dad's car as the dusky sky ablaze with little light signaled the end of the day. The blooms and the grass told tales of the late spring, of the time that revived them from the dead. It was phenomenal really, how death slowly weeded amidst plethora of life and swallowed every sliver of light, but all it took was a new dawn for a rebirth.

And just like that, in that moment, I knew we would be alright again.

Notes

Greetings fellas! I'm here with my first story and I'm so stoked about it. It's gonna be a high school au since I've not read any of those in a while. Hopefully I'll be able to do it justice, fingers crossed :))