Aisley

A Story by Carly Booth

A (fictional) letter, written to practice conveying a story without telling it outright.

My dear Aisley,

Today is a Tuesday. Tuesdays were always your favorite days, although I don’t think I will ever understand why. You used to say you felt that Tuesdays were always overlooked, and associated with Mondays, and so you felt bad for them. I don’t think a day of the week has much ability to care about which other days it’s associated with, but I would always agree because you seemed to care so much about this one day that can’t possibly have an opinion.

I visited again today, for the first time in a week and a half. I was with you when it happened. You stopped breathing, even with the help of that disgusting, vomit-colored machine. I don’t know if you’ll remember, or if you can remember anything that happens to you, if you hear anything I say. Anyways…the nurses all rushed me out immediately because I wasn’t family, not technically. Your parents weren’t even there. Not that they would be, I suppose. I’m sorry. You probably don’t want to talk about that right now. I mean, not that we’re really talking, and not that we will be when you read this…if you read this.

I went back every day for a week and half, but they never let me back in until today. So I sat outside in the waiting room every day. You would think that somebody would’ve told me what was going on, but nobody ever did. All I know is that you’re worse now, but you’re still breathing, still alive. Still beautiful. And still my Aisley.

I wish I could write you beautiful, poetic letters that would make you cry when you wake up. But all I can do is stumble over my words and sit by your bed, telling you things that you’ll never remember, and that I’ll be too afraid to say when you’re awake.

They tell me that it’s likely you’ll never wake up. I tell them to shut up and keep trying. I don’t think they like me very much, but they all seem to like you, which is all that really matters anyways.

Honestly, I don’t really remember much about the day of the accident. I was working, I think, when the hospital called me. For a while I wondered how they knew to contact me. Later, one of the kinder nurses told me that while you were going in and out of consciousness, my name was the only thing they could get out of you. So after attempting to contact your parents, who " big surprise here " didn’t pick up, they searched your phone or something like that, and contacted me. I’ve been told I was a mess, shouting at everyone to make you better, starting fights with people who, to me in that condition, looked like someone who might’ve hit you with their car, and trying to force my way into the operating room. That day, I think I probably would’ve qualified to stay in a mental hospital. I’m not proud of the way I reacted, Aisley, but when it comes to you, there’s no stopping me.

I didn’t sleep the first week, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t visit. I threw away my work schedule and pretty much became a fixture by your bedside. It’s been three and half weeks. I’ve probably lost my job, but if so, they haven’t bothered to call me, and at this point, I can’t really be bothered to call them. Maybe it’s not the smartest decision in the long run, but considering the fact that your life is pretty much in limbo right now, the long run is not my most pressing concern.

Well, I should be going. I never got the chance to tell you " I’m taking some classes at the community college over the summer. You’d be proud of me. My first one starts today, in approximately fourteen minutes. (And here you’d say, “It’s a letter, Parker, you can pick it up again later.”)

Aisley, I miss you more than anything. Please come back soon.

Please.