Narrative Writing Competition

Lake Of Dust

by Christian Blackburn

Wind shrieked past his exposed ears; the swirling clouds of dust that blasted across his layers of ragged clothing ripped and tugged like binding as he forced his way through the storm. His thick goggles did little to prevent the stinging brown air from seeping into his eyes. Madly blinking to no avail, he stumbled blindly, hoping desperately to locate shelter from the vicious storm. He took another step into the buffeting brown ocean, which repeatedly washed over him like a relentless tide.

Suddenly, the ground beneath his feet gave way, the dust billowing beneath his worn boots, littered with splits and cuts. For a brief moment, he felt he was flying away - like an albatross or some other majestic avian. He was unable to stop his face from greeting the dust-blanketed pebbles as he tumbled to the ground. He groaned as he heaved himself up with his makeshift-gloved hands.

‘Bad idea,’ he thought, as the dust whirled around him and swam into his chest, clawing down his throat along the way. A raspy wheeze was expelled from him as he sat up. Around him was a shallow crater, giving much needed protection against the roaring brown ocean above and enabling his ears to breathe now they were out of the constant pummelling of the storm.

He glanced around from where his face had met the dust-coated pebbles. Thankfully, the layer of dust was thick enough not to add another scratch or crack to his goggles. He picked up one of the pebbles and - after using the back of his glove to wipe away a few layers of dust from his coated goggles - he peered into the silt that fell away as he gently shook it in his palm.

Working as a ranger for five years told him that the darker, finer sediment that fell away belonged to one of the Earth’s once beautiful lakes. Not that being a ranger mattered anymore. Not after the Cataclysm. The nuclear war had decimated the Earth, blasting all of the beautiful natural paradises into oblivion - or at least enough of them to cause ecosystems to collapse and the rest of the Earth to fade to dust.

He shimmied over to the nearest wall to rest his aching back, which felt like he’d tried carrying a mountain through the storm above him. He stared into its aggressive winds and tried to imagine what this place could have looked like pre-Cataclysm.

His father would have loved it. He was sure. The crystal clear water would have glistened as its surface reflected the warm sun’s rays, contrasting with how cold nuclear winter has been. There would have been so much green. Trees, grasses, all sorts of native flowers blooming brilliantly in the spring. Fish, all of varying sizes and colours, must have swum about, while elegant birds above dived into the refreshing water to catch their prey. His father loved birds. Why he would throw this all away seemed inconceivable. Utterly incomprehensible. Yet he had said yes. Yes to all of this - the Cataclysm. He could have said no, leave Australia out of the mess, but he was the Minister of Defence at the time. He did this to his country, his world.

The ranger sighed deeply and returned his gaze to the dusty crater floor. He’d tried countless times to talk his father out of ‘pushing the button’ but he was helpless. Only after his father realised the horrors he’d unleashed on his people did regret swamp him. Now, everyone was out to get him, preventing the ranger from entering any of the small clusters of survivors in case they ever learnt his identity. Try as he might, the ranger never found his father after the apocalypse began in Australia. They were both alone together.

A distressed croak from beyond the crater caught the ranger’s attention. He glanced up to see a break in the storm above. Carefully, he crept up the side of the crater and peered out. The dusty land looked as desolate as ever.

Exposed earth and rocks appeared to levitate after the vicious storm stripped the ground clean from underneath them. The ranger squinted hard into the distance and could just make out the brown ocean, barely illuminated by the blood red sun.

The noise pierced through the silence that rang in the ranger’s ears, shocking him back into focus. A brown shape with long black legs appeared from behind a cluster of rocks - a bird with a red patch of feathers atop its head. The brolga scooped its long neck and stared at the ranger. His heart panged with surprise, guilt and sorrow. He realised it was probably one of the few creatures to survive the Cataclysm, perhaps the last of its kind.

He felt around in his torn clothes, digging deep into the pockets, hoping the maze of holes hadn’t caused the tin to slip out. He grasped it, checking the label - canned fish – before returning it to his pocket. His last can of food.

Slowly, so as not to scare the bird, he heaved himself out of the crater and crouched low to appear less intimidating. As he approached the brolga he peeled off his dust-clad goggles – the remaining dust swirled to cling to his clothes - and maintained eye contact. The brolga stood, frozen. The ranger could now see its protruding ribs. It was almost gone. He produced the tin.

The brolga stared back at the human clad in ragged clothes. The human offered a small shiny object in his outstretched hand, freeing the familiar salty smell of fish. From then on, they’d be alone together.

“Ice and Fire”

a short story inspired by Kathy Jetnil-Kijner & Aka Niviâna’s poem “Rise”

by Kiran Craperi

The icy waters of the north Atlantic sprayed and raged relentlessly against the heaving hull of the vessel – the Eldurìs*. Fog swirled around outside the salt-covered windows of the bridge, obscuring my vision of the illuminated deck below. I staggered towards the cabin door, forcing it open against the howling night wind to get a view of my crew.

Hard at work my seasoned seamen hauled in a 700lb metal cage brimming with the speckled orange of Atlantic snow crabs – a much needed reward after a long three weeks at sea with little to nothing to show for it. My brother stood out like a sore thumb. His weak and frail frame fought pathetically against the controls on the crane. Another wave surged against the rusted bow, throwing him against the controls and smashing the cage with a thunderous crack against the side of the vessel. The tethers snapped, releasing the trap - along with our best catch in a month - into the icy depths.

I swore, roiled into a fiery, rage-fuelled fit of aggression as I stormed onto the deck. I grabbed the back of Gylfi’s jacket and hurled him against the gunnel. Blood gushed from his temple.

“Johann! No! I’m sorry, it was an accident.” Gylfi cowered against the gunnel, drenched in blood and seawater, bracing for a second assault.

I grabbed his outstretched arm and dragged him by the wrist towards the cabins below deck. Reaching the edge of the steep steel-edged stairs, I flung him. I left Gylfi huddled and whimpering at the bottom of the stairs like a whipped dog. The fire ebbed, quenched by a cold wave of guilt.

Spinning on my heel I faced my crew. They were silent in shock, not daring to make eye contact with me.

Bjorn! Go clean him up.” I knew I could trust that surprisingly soft heart hiding behind a towering frame to care for Gylfi, in a way I couldn’t.

“As for the rest of you. Back to work!” I shouted, half-heartedly trying to regain control of the situation.

Only as I slumped back at the helm did it dawn on me what I’d done. Why had our mother insisted I take him aboard? I knew he couldn’t handle it. Ever since we were kids Gylfi was always more suited to an academic’s life. Cleverness and wit doesn’t get you anywhere on the deck of a crab boat. It had been a few weeks and he was still getting hazed brutally by the rest of the crew. All they wanted from him was a show of strength or promise of a backbone, but he had none. It was better to let it happen. Even someone as pathetic as my little brother would eventually adapt if circumstances demanded it. This icy hell has always demanded it.

When Dad died, all he left was this vessel, a rusted-out relic of an era past and gone. There was no money in it anymore. As the waters warmed there was less and less catch. It was a dying industry suffocated by the cruelty of an ever-changing world. Born and raised in Suoureyi, a backwater Icelandic fishing village, there was no other option - no other source of income. That’s why Gylfi could never go to university; that’s why he ended up aboard the Eldurìs.

The sun began to rise over the cresting waves, spilling bloody red light across the sky that shot through the fog like red streaks through cold granite. It illuminated the underbelly of the thick storm-clouds, grey-black giving way to beautiful shades of orange and red. Everything seemed slower. The distant call of seagulls cut through the drone of the engine; the heaving of the vessel seemed gentler than before. The howling wind seemed to subside.

My focus shifted back to the deck, where the crew was hard at work. Yells and grunts carried in the wind as they sifted through yet another disappointing catch. Movement from the stairwell caught my eye as Bjorn and Gylfi stumbled back onto the deck. I didn’t expect him back so soon. The brother I knew wouldn’t have been back until at least noon the next day. Perhaps he was tougher than he looked.

My eyes followed his path. I watched him struggle to attach the crane harness to the cage, straining against the weight as he hoisted it over the gunnel. Everything was running as smoothly as possible. The crew worked as a unit, Gylfi determinedly sorting, heaving, and bracing against the waves at a pace I would have thought impossible only a few minutes before.  This newfound strength wouldn’t last long, but my icy heart was thawed by his straining effort and his desperation to impress me. Maybe I had been too hard on him – too impatient.

The crew began to lift another cage over the side. Working quickly, Gylfi lifted, his foot planted firmly in the centre of a coil of rope attached to the cage. An alarm bell rang in my mind – a rookie mistake, but one that was potentially fatal. I sprang into action, sprinting onto the deck as they released the cage. The coil tightened around his leg like a python and began ripping him overboard into the unforgiving abyss. Moments spent in icy waters of the North Atlantic would be anyone’s last, and the cage would bear him downward in a relentless death roll.

Just in time, I grabbed the rope. Frantically I sawed the frayed rope against the edge of the hull with my pocketknife. Gylfi slammed against the deck, eyes wide in shock, too dazed to comprehend what had just happened. Too stunned to realise how close he had been to becoming a permanent feature of the sea-floor.

I reached down and gruffly pulled him to his feet. He began to plead, fearful of my fiery temper, but then quickly stuttered to silent relief. I pulled him into an awkward embrace. “Go sleep. You’ve done enough for one day.”

*Translates to “ice and fire” in Icelandic

Ace of Hearts

by Hailey Penna-Collins

“You know I’ll love you no matter what you are, right?” Grace said, as Amelia tumbled into the car, long limbs creating a sprawling mess as she tossed her school bag in the back seat. It landed with a thump, a heavy reminder of the work needing to be complete by Monday.

“Uh huh.” Already she was plotting out how to fit in the movies with Jess between study. “Love you too, mum.”

Grace sighed as she flicked the indicator on. She weaved through the cars with practised ease, scrunching her face in a well-practised apology for ‘accidentally’ cutting off a blue mini. “You know what I mean though, don’t you, Ames. Lord knows I had my share of fun when I was your age.”

Amelia wasn’t lying when she said she loved her mother, and she appreciated her constant barrage of self-confidence kicks, but they had gotten repetitive over the years.

“It’s true!” Grace laughed. “Of course, I never went below, but I don’t mind if you do.”

At this, Amelia’s head snapped up.

“Not that I don’t want you being safe, of course,” she quickly tacked on.

It was at that point that it clicked. “Mum, you don't… think I’m gay do you?”

Grace fixed her daughter with a pointed stare. “You can’t deny that you’ve always been, um, different. The only guy you’ve ever had a crush on was Liam … and he’s your cousin.”

“For the last time, I was five! I wasn’t actually going to marry him!”

Amelia slumped back in her seat, twisting the hem of her dress tight between her fist. If Grace had met the guys at her school, she’d understand her determination to stay far, far away from them.

Amelia should be glad she wasn’t ditching class on whim and sneaking out after dark, meeting with illicit infatuations.

Amelia thought of Jess and the long trail of broken hearts she’d left behind. There had been countless since the start of secondary, and she was sure the list would only grow as Jess did. Amelia had always admired her for that.

But when Jess would tug her to the side of the corridor, when she’d write her a note in Literature, it was too much. The lewd stories. The anecdotes. The little comments about her night. More often than not, it went beyond what Amelia could handle. And Jess would laugh, and tell her she was a prude, and they’d move on.

But now she wondered.

It was true she’d never lusted after the boys in her grade, or any for that matter. And that wasn’t to say there weren’t options. The day Carter Wostole had asked her out would forever be burnt into her brain.

It had been just before third period, and she’d been rummaging through her locker looking for a lost worksheet when he’d popped up, strong arm laid across the top of the door. He was a full head taller than her, and she had to crane her neck to meet his eyes.

“Hey, Ames,” he had said. He’d linked his arm with hers, and took her books without pause.

And who says chivalry is dead? Amelia had thought, as she followed him to History. He’d been slightly chattier than normal, but no less confident, and even when he took an awkward turn towards the music block, he had hushed her admonitions.

“So I had a dream,” he began.

Immediately she was regretting this, but she played along, regardless. “Queen Mab pay a visit, did she?” she murmured, even as she attempted to talk a half step back, meeting brick wall.

He huffed a short laugh. “You’re such a nerd, Ames.”

She bristled slightly at his amusement. “I’m cultured,” she said, sounding the word out carefully as though he were a small child.

“You’re gorgeous.”

He took the point of her chin between his fingers, cradling it gently. “In this dream, you and me… we had something good.”

“Is that so?”

Later, Amelia would look back, and wonder how the sarcasm had been misconstrued as flirting.

“Can I kiss you?”

He seemed to take her baffled silence as permission.

His lips pressed against hers, rough and chapped, and his hand wavered awkwardly in the air, unsure whether to go higher or lower, before settling on groping at her waist. She could feel the pitted blisters on his skin from woodworking, even through the cotton of her dress, and she recoiled in repulsed.

“Yeah?” he asked, mistaking her quivers for excitement.

No.

“Um, Carter, I don’t -”

“Relax.” He pressed his finger to her mouth, shushing her. “No one’s around.”

No.

His tongue plunged past the barriers of her lips, swirling in her mouth. Bile rose up the back of her throat, and when she made to push him away, he deftly caught her wrists and arranged her arms around his torso.

“N-no!” she yelled, half gurgled against his mouth. He drew back, surprised.

“Ames?”

“I’m sorry - I - class. Sorry.”

She’d rushed to History, cheeks aflame, still trembling. She’d been late, but her teacher had taken one look at her distraught face, and let her quietly take her seat and hide behind her textbook.

Minutes later, Carter had walked in, and she’d determinately read the same passage over and over, refusing to make eye contact, even when he threw wadded up balls of paper at her back.

She tried to keep her distance after that. She wanted to be Switzerland, but he wouldn’t stop invading. She was forced to defend with the tactical ‘Decline Call’ button, returning fire by leaving his messages on ‘read’ and ‘open’. She’d told Jess, of course, who’d gone up to him and chewed him out in front of half the grade, careful not to let anything personal slip in front of their audience.

She’d always been there for Amelia. Always. Sometimes in incredibly weird, awkwardly timed ways, but just as important nevertheless. Which is what led to a perfectly innocent meet up at the cinema becoming the location for Amelia’s second kiss.

“I mean, I don’t think I am,” Amelia whispered, as she and Jess took their seats, pushing their handbags to the side and divvying up the snacks. “How would I even know?”

“At least your mum is being positive,” Jess reminded her, a point which Amelia had to concede was true. She’d never felt awkward about speaking with her mum; even ‘The Talk’ had been a casual conversation, albeit with printed diagrams and a naked Barbie.

“What’s that?”

“The vagina. That’s where -”

“Boring! How are twins made?”

So enwrapped in her thoughts was Amelia, that she almost missed what Jess had suggested. “You want to make out?” she hissed, as the words caught up to her brain. Behind them, a woman coughed

pointedly before making a violent gesture with her hand.

“Oh, piss off!” Jess said, snapping around to glare at her. Amelia muffled her laughter with her hand.

“And who else, exactly, are you going to experiment with?”

Amelia blinked at Jess, before taking a nervous look at the many patrons seated around them. "But now?" she asked incredulously.

“Why not? Do you know how many times I’ve made out in the back of the movie theatre?”

Amelia fixed her with a stare, aware of her many, many escapades. If anything, at least she would be experienced.

Kissing Jess was nothing like Carter. She was… not passive, exactly, but she let Amelia take charge, matching her pace. Amelia could smell her floral scent, the same perfume she’d had since puberty, and the silk of her blouse was nothing like the rough fabric of Carter’s uniform. If Amelia had a scoreboard, she’d give Jess a solid 10 for personal hygiene and general considerateness, if nothing else. But there was no tingle. There was no rush of endorphins, no butterflies flying rampant in her stomach, only the disappointing absence of a magical musical ensemble waiting at the curtains, ready to burst into song at the beauty of the moment.

Anyone else would have flipped off the guys in the back row wolf whistling, but Jess simply blew them a series of confident air kisses, leaning back in her chair, a satisfied smile stretching across her face. She raised a single eyebrow in lieu of a question.

“You were fine.”

“‘Fine’? I was ‘fine’?” Jess scowled at her, muttering obscenities under her breath. “I cannot believe I

wasted a perfectly good make out sesh with you. Ridiculous. No appreciation, your generation.

None.”

“I am literally three weeks younger than you.”

“Just ‘fine’, she says. This country is going to the dogs.”

“Sit back and watch the movie.”

Jess rolled her eyes, but curled up on her chair as a particularly gruesome jumpscare took place.

Amelia offered her the box of popcorn in apology, which was readily taken, and that was that. It wasn’t until later, when Jess was driving her home, her headlights illuminating the familiar roads they’d travelled as children, that she finally ventured to ask.

“I’m a good kisser,” she started, voice bolstered by well-earnt confidence. “I’ve heard that from several reputable sources.”

Amelia nodded.

“Not just guys.”

Amelia was well aware of Jess’ indifference when it came to genitalia; a body was a body, and if it was hot, well… Jess was interested. And Amelia loved that about her friend. Loved how open she was, how daring. She wasn’t frightened by anything or anyone, and she was always in control.

“It was better than Carter,” Amelia tentatively offered.

“Pah! Of course it was.”

Jess drummed her fingers against the wheel, silent for the moment, before saying, “Ames, my dearest, darlingest friend… have you considered the fact you might be ace?”

Ace. The word reverberated in her mind. With it, came conjurations of plants and asexual reproduction, but then flashing images of demented men in straitjackets with their indecipherable, crazed writing decorating the walls. “I’m not crazy,” she said, feeling all of a sudden it was important to make that clear. “I do have feelings.”

“I know,” Jess quickly placated. “I know. But - and correct me if I’m wrong - maybe not sexual ones?”

Amelia stared at her nails.

“I mean, have you ever actually looked at someone and thought, ‘Get them in me now!’?”

“Jessica!” And then, much quieter, “No.”

“I mean sometimes you act a little psycho, sure -”

“Hey!”

“- but being ace doesn’t mean you don’t have feelings. It’s not like you can’t still get married. Or, like you still have to get married. Do whatever you want. Fuck the patriarchy.”

Jess gave her a wide grin, which Amelia slowly returned. “Thanks, Jess,” she said quietly.

The rest of the ride home was silent.

When they arrived at Amelia’s house, she clambered out of the car, half-dazed by the sudden revelation, barely able to toss Jess a pitiful ‘goodnight’. Amelia raced through talking with her mum, citing homework as an excuse to dash into her room. She perched on the edge of her seat, slowly opening her laptop lid, even as her heart thumped frantically.

Starting simple was the goal. She typed in ‘asexual’, and had to quickly refine it to ‘asexual people’ when it immediately came up with certain types of vegetation and annelid worms. Soon, hundreds of

articles were staring at her.

Sounds Fake, But Okay: Exploring The Asexual Fad

Asexuality Is A Mental Disorder

But then:

Asexuality: Finding A Place In Pride

Being Asexual Is Totally Fine

Finally, she came across a site. It was plain, especially in comparison to the bright, rainbow-laden ones she’d been staring at for an hour. And there, underlined and in bold, was the title of a quiz:

LGBTQIA+ : Am I Asexual?

Her cursor circled the link, darting back and forth as the blaring question seemed to egg her on.

‘What’s the worst that could happen, Ames?’ Jess’ voice said inside her.

She clicked on the link.

Six Hours of Introspection

by Sasha White

Never in my seventeen years of life did I think that I’d be here, writing this. But who else am I supposed to confide in? Delilah is dead. No one else will listen. They just keep trying to console me with lies like: “You can talk to me,” and “I’m here for you.” But truthfully, they’re not supporting me. Because if they were, I wouldn’t be here, staring at the clock, desperate for an ounce of solace from places that, four days ago, would have never been up for consideration. For as long as I can remember, it’s been her and me. Forever. I just wish I’d known forever would have ended so soon.

Six hours left.

“Why can’t you just be supportive of me?!” The anger-fuelled question echoed around the house as she hurled the door closed with enough force to shatter the whole wall. Three days later, the same question echoes in my mind. Why couldn’t I have just let her be? Why did I have to choose that night to pick a fight with her? Our argument plays on repeat in my mind, incessant and unabating. I should have begged her to stay, instead of throwing her out, ultimately sealing her fate.

“You’re making such a bad decision!”

“Don’t tell me what is or isn’t a good idea.”

“All I’m saying is that going back to him will make you miserable! We’ve been here before, and you know how it will end.”

“I’m so sick of you telling me what to do with my life.”

“I’m just trying to look out for you!”

“Stop doing that! I can make my own decisions, and I most certainly do not need your input!”

“Maybe you should just leave.” The silence that hung in the air between us was deafening, both of us looking at each other, the depths of hell circling in our eyes. Until she turned around and walked away. Walked away from me to her death.

We’d never argued so viciously before, but even then, when things had seemed so particularly bad, we should have been able to reconcile. But this time, we wouldn’t get the chance to. I shouldn’t have kicked her out. Even more, I shouldn’t have started the argument. I was just jealous that she’d go and spend more time with him, leaving me all alone---until he decided to break her heart again. It’s not fair for me to think of her like that. She would’ve done anything for me. So why did I have to try to jeopardise her shot at happiness?

Five hours left.

The past three days have been restless; any successful unconscious encounter harboured the most horrific hallucinations. The realm of the awake offers no comfort either. Instead, I am hyper-aware of every whisper of wind outside my window, every disturbance in the still air of my room, every hushed voice outside my door, concerned about my wellbeing. My skull feels like it’s imploding, and my lungs constrict every time I take a breath, as if a fist is tightening around them. A glance at the clock reveals that it is 5:48pm. Only 36 minutes of sleep, and it wasn’t pleasant. I dreamt about all the ways her death is my fault. Her limp body on my knife, a gunshot through her skull, my hands holding her lifeless body underwater. Scars and bruises. Blood and bones. Cuts and gashes. It never ends. Thirty-six whole minutes of pure torture. When we were younger, we used to console each other after nightmares. Back then, they seemed like the biggest problems in the world; the monster under the bed, the bad guy in the mask, the weird superhuman with world-ending powers. She always comforted me more than I did her, but she didn’t seem to mind. Sleepless nights never appeared to bother her; she’d do anything for me. I hope she knows that I’d do anything for her too.

Four hours left.

The scene of the accident was worse than I could have ever imagined; an unidentifiable mess of limbs contorted in angles that I did not know were possible. After she left – the house eerily vacant without her – I realised that the last thing I wanted was to go to bed with us mad at each other, so I’d set off to her house to apologise and make things right again. Only, I never made it that far. The blinding lights of the ambulances piqued my curiosity on the drive; but I was not prepared for the horrors I’d witness. I see the scene of the accident every time I close my eyes.

A body so mangled that it would be unidentifiable, if it were not for the number plate on the road nearby – her number plate. The car, an inferno licking at the paint just moments before, remains as a charred mess. An ambulance is on the scene, but it’s futile. It would take a miracle to survive something like this. The emergency responders, a mix of firefighters and paramedics, consider their options for getting her out of the car, noting that it would be impossible to pull her out in one piece. Her body would disintegrate into pieces, like a jigsaw puzzle. The emergency responders don’t need to announce that she’s dead to the gathering crowd of onlookers. Everyone knows. Time of death: 10:23pm

I wish there was a type of bleach for my brain – the memories of my best friend are forever tainted by the impression of her dismembered body.

Three hours left.

I’m trying to think of happier memories to distract myself from reality, but I feel so guilty. I should be feeling sad right now. I should be curled up in a ball surrounded by piles of tear-soaked tissues, not searching for particles of serotonin in the corners of my brain. Why should I be happy when she’s not here to remind me of the good times? The one I’m thinking of now, the one that my brain is choosing to torment me with, is when we went to the fair together. A memory so dear to me; nothing else even comes close. If I close my eyes hard enough, I can block out the death scene and imagine we’re still there instead.

Holding each other’s hands so tightly that it’s a wonder that our circulation hasn’t cut off. The carnival ride begins to swing from side to side, a pendulum of happy terror that cannot be replicated elsewhere. We’d waited over thirty minutes in line for this; the best view of the whole showground. Bright lights and the smell of overpriced fried food, combined with the fast swinging, overwhelm our senses, only adding to the enjoyment of the ride. Finally, the ride gains enough momentum for us to go upside-down, providing us with a thrill like no other. Moments like these make me happiest. I can just look at her and feel the rest of the world fade away. As long as I’m with her, life is okay.

But if I think about it too hard, the memory leaves a sour aftertaste that makes me want to gouge my eyeballs out, so I can never be graced with any pleasant experiences without her ever again. We went upside-down – so did her car. We screamed our lungs out – so did she. We went on the ride together – she died alone. Every memory I think of becomes corrupted. Even the most innocuous ones, where we’re just having the strangest conversations – ones which I could not have with anyone else, because she just gets me.

“Ink freaks me out.”

“What does that even mean?”

“On sheet music Delilah.”

“Oh…”

“The rhythms are too fast, and there’s too many of them. My brain can’t keep up!”

“Well if you just cover them up, they won’t be there…”

“You’re a genius.”

“I know!”

She wasn’t a musician like I am, but she always got involved, supporting me at every performance, no matter how small. And she’d always show up with a bouquet, apparently the “least she could do.” My biggest fan from day one. And of course, I was hers too.

“Knee up, toe up, heel down. Knee up, toe up, heel down.”

“What on Earth are you going on about?”

“Coach has been on my case about my running form lately. I need to fix it before the next

competition, or he’ll be furious.”

“I’ve seen him mad before. It’s kind of funny. His face turns purple and you can almost see the steam coming out of his ears.”

“Funny to see, not funny to be on the receiving end of.”

“I can help you practice if you want?”

“Please.”

We were opposites in the hobby sense. Her an athlete, and me a musician. Maybe that’s why we worked so well – complemented each other perfectly. The yin to my yang. I don’t know how to live without her.

Two hours left.

I think I’m losing my mind – the effects of sleeplessness forcing me to confront the manifestations of my mental state. The shadows cast by the meek light in my room have established themselves as people, with their voices circling around the room – hushed whispers, attacking me with their blame. Accusations and threats and criticisms and whatever other degrading things they can come up with. Blaming me for her death. Maybe they’re not wrong? I wish I knew how to fix things.

The voices change. From raspy, snide comments, to her voice – crystal clear and reassuring. A wave of peace washes over me. She’s here, in my room! In my room, with me, and I’m not alone anymore. The grip on my lungs has been released, and I take my first deep breath in days. I wanted to spend eternity with her, and maybe I can. Maybe there’s a way to be with her once more? She’s here, right in front of me, and life is okay again. Because as long as we’re together, I feel whole and complete.

One hour left.

I’m so grateful that Delilah is here to show me how to tie this rope properly. Her graceful hands mimic the movements that I need to follow. Without her I’d be so lost, and my creation wouldn’t be nearly as effective. The sooner Death arrives to escort me to the afterlife, the better. If this is the only way to restore my life to how it should be, then so be it. I just need to be together with her again. She is my everything and shall be for eternity.

I string the rope up, my beautiful creation begging me to utilise it; make use of its intended purpose. It looks so inviting… How can I say no? I won’t say no. Delilah is encouraging me, even offering to give me a leg up if I need one. She’s always been considerate and compassionate, her best attributes never failing to shine through, regardless of the situation. I can tell that she only wants what’s best for me, as she always has. I can even smell the sweet perfume of the bouquet she’s brought for me. After a bit of a struggle, I  put my neck through the little loop I’ve created. Delilah watches. Her mouth doesn’t move, but her voice echoes around the room: “I’ve got you,” and “We can be together again!” and “I’m always here for you,” and-

Zero hours left.

I fixed everything.