Spirit of the Forgotten

Years ago

I stood at the edge of the pool in the park, the water swirling around inside was a dark blue, almost eerie black. The looming figure approaches from behind, a dark shadow that extended forward. If I had been smarter I would’ve understood, but now it was too late.

I didn’t see the figure walk up behind me, just as I was clueless when it stepped up to the edge the the pool beside me.

If I had been older I might have sensed the danger, but I was just four at the time. I didn’t think of the problems that would arise with the approaching figure. Yet I should’ve, I should’ve taken the time to do so. Because if I had maybe my fate would’ve been different. Maybe my life would be different. Or maybe it wouldn’t be at all.

My sister walked up behind me, my father stood off to the side, his back turned to us, hand against his ear, holding up the cellphone. He angrily spoke, his hands gesturing with everything he said and done. I was only four, I had no idea what this meant for me, but I knew that he wasn’t supposed to be here.

He had never been there.

My sister places a hand on my shoulder, one that could be seen as comfort but I had a feeling that it was something different. Something worse. Before I could do or say anything however I was flying. At least, I thought that I was. It had felt like I was, my feet above the ground, my body propelling forward. But just like flying you have to land, except I didn’t land on my feet. In fact, I landed as far from my feet as I could.

My body slammed into the water of the pool, my head hit the bottom. A shock wave flew through me. Sending me crashing into shock. At first I was oblivious to the weight that fell on top of me.

For a few seconds everything was okay. I felt peace. But then the panic set in. Without knowing what was really happening I feel the air leave my lungs, a big whoosh of wind that created bubbles in the water around me. Through the clear water I could barely make out a pair of feet, about a foot away from my head. Bright pink nail polish shining through the water as the sun hits the toes.

The pressure that had made its home on top of me was none other than my sister. Her bright pink nail polish a glistening reminder that she hated me. Through the foggy water I could hear my father still yelling on the phone.

As the feeling of my lungs caving, due to the fact that it felt like an elephant was sitting on my chest, I closed my eyes. Trying to breath even though I knew it was hopeless, there wasn’t enough air in the world to help me out.

My vision fuzzes out, one more time I fight to open my eyes, staring hazily out into the brilliant blue that crystallize as I watched the sun hit it. For one last cry of hope I prayed. My mind cried out to the heavens. I prayed for help. I prayed for someone to be listening.

I was only four years old, but all my life I remember my mother saying that there was a God above. Someone that cared, someone that looked out for every single soul. God, the creator, the giver. The person that everyone believed in.

My mom had always said that God was the person that you wanted with you during the worst time of your life. She said that he was always there. My mom said that he was real and he was true. And that some people didn’t think so because they never actually asked for help. They just expected it when they needed.

She said that if you never ask for help when you were having a bad time then you’d never get any help. I figured that this moment counted as that. So I prayed for help. I prayed for guidance.

But more than that, I prayed for life. For a purpose, for a friend. I asked for help, over and over again. And I waited, I waited for what seemed for years upon years. But it was only seconds. Second after second as I laid underneath that water. My lungs giving out, already out of air. I prayed for someone to save me. I prayed for life.

I believed with all my heart that it was a bad dream. That I was home, in my bed, comfortable and safe. That this wasn’t my sister that was sitting on top of me, that it was a nightmare.

But as that became less and less believable I hoped that she didn’t know what she was doing. That she thought it was all a joke.

I prayed to God over and over that day. I prayed for help, life, safety, anything I could think of. But the more I prayed the more I died. The more my mind slipped away. Nothing happened, and just as I was on the brink of falling into the darkness I realized something.

I realized that no one was listening…  

Author's Note

This has nothing to do with religion or anything, it's just a story.

Reviews

[barleygirl]

The best thing about your story is the theme statement: "mom told me to ask for help, but in the end, help sometimes does not come." This is shown in a powerful way, but also with a chilling sense of acceptance. It's a strange jumble of sensations that you use to show us this 4-yo girl fading away & I like that "death" is shown in a disjointed way, instead of being dramatic & linear, like many writers might describe this. My only complaint is that sometimes you pack a sentence with extra meaningless transitional phrases & a suspenseful piece should be cleared of unnecessary words. Example: "Without knowing what was really happening" (what does this phrase do to advance your story? get rid of fluff like this & focus on passages that intensely convey the forward movement of action in your story) . . . Another area of too much fluff is when you tell how mom said "this and that" about God . . . this goes on & on for too long, when it's being inserted into a passage of intense drama & suspense. You could cut this down to half & still get the point across (there's too much repetition) & then get right back to an action-paced storyline. Other than these distracting little side trips, your overall storytelling is strong & interesting & unique (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie