The birds sing in the early morning sun and I breathe in the deep, musky scent of the outdoors. My friend and I lie back on the grassy back and gaze up at the sky. I twiddle a small purple flower with my fingers, staring at Maia’s beautiful face. Maia has propped a small canvas up against her knees and is painting the gorgeous blue sky, the white fluffy clouds portraying so many pictures, so many dreams, so many loves and hopes. She laughs, a carefree sound and I smile.
A tear falls down my cheek and the salty taste in my mouth brings me drowsily back to the present. I gaze down at the broken, vulnerable form of my friend. My eyes linger on the purple and blue bruises that cover her jaw and stomach. I haven’t seen her relaxed for so long. I miss the carefree sound of her laugh, the beautiful whisper of her voice when she was trying to be quiet and failing. I miss the sound of her voice- strong and eternally optimistic. She is but a shell of the being she once was, broken and torn apart by her own father.
I walk through the door and am stopped dead by the sight of Maia lying on the ground, unconscious with her father standing over her, his face one of anger and satisfaction. I gasp realising that he had been the one to hurt Maia so. He turns to me and snarls. Scared, I rush out of the door and run, crying, home as quickly as my ten year old legs would let me.
That was two years ago and I can no longer run, Maia can no longer say everything is fine. We both know that nothing is fine. She’s lying here, frail and broken in the hospital, hooked up to heart monitors, breathing machines and who knows what else. She’s only twelve, we’re only twelve. She’s too young to die, to have her life destroyed. She deserves to be loved and to live but, and despite the encouraging doctors we both know she is dying, she is facing death after two years of abuse and violence at the hand of her father, the very person who should’ve prevented harm from coming to her.
I am pulled from my thoughts as Maia’s croaky whisper sounds in the air.
“I don’t regret.”
Her last words.
I hear the heart monitor fall silent, its reading go flat, signalling the death of my lifelong friend. A piece of me is shattered at that silent sound and I fall to the ground, still gripping Maia’s pale, lifeless hand and let out a wail. It is a wail of pain, or despair, of things left unsaid. I loved her, no, my love for her is still there, it didn’t die, it is the one piece of her still alive.
I never got the chance to tell her that I loved her, I never got to tell her she was loved but I won’t let her go until I have.
I pinch her nose and breathe my air into her mouth, pumping on her diaphragm, trying to bring her life, even if for only a second.
“It’s futile,” says the doctor as he comes in and spots me.
I ignore him and keep trying, refusing to give up.
Maia’s eyes flutter open and my breath hitches.
“I love you,” I whisper, pressing my lips gently upon her delicate lips.
“More than anything else, Jack,” comes her soft voice against my lips.
Her eyes close for the last time and she falls silent, never to speak or see again.
Tears fall silently, freely down my face and I grip her hand tighter, resting my head against her stomach. That’s how the doctors find us an hour later.
“We must take her,” they tell me gently and I cry some more, nodding my head and pressing a final kiss against her lips before slipping my hand from hers and allowing them to take her away.
She was full of spirit and now she is nothing more than an empty corpse, still, I’ll join her before long and she will be waiting for me. Our spirits will always be together, even after death.
![[send message]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/mail.png){kind=small}
![[befriend]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/friend.png){kind=small}
Share This
Email
Facebook
Twitter
Read Request
My Library
Flag Writing