Loss

um, this is something I wrote a few years ago, for my English Class at college. We had to write a story based on a word, so I chose "Loss", and wrote about the day I found out my dad had passed away.

 I set off to school as usual on that tragic day in November 2000. Dressed in my blue Whitecross jumper and matching tie, I strolled into tutor, chatting to my friends. Just another day at school for a normal twelve year old. Or so I thought.

I attended my first lesson as usual, before heading to my second lesson, science. Everything seemed normal, except for a nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach that something was wrong.

As we all concentrated on our work, there came a loud knock on the door.

“Come in!” shouted Mrs Wilde, in a voice that could crack windows. In walked Mrs Smith, the school secretary.

“I’ve come to collect Kelly Jones,” she said in a calm manner. I looked at Mrs Wilde and she nodded her consent. I packed up my work and headed for the door, throwing one final glance at Amanda, my good friend.

“Don’t forget the homework sheet I gave you.” I smiled at Mrs Wilde, and then closed the door behind me.

“I’ve probably got a dentist appointment or something,” I said, and let out a single, nervous laugh. We walked in silence until we reached the reception desk, where she told me to take a seat.

A few minutes later, Russell, a close family friend, turned up and I signed out. We picked up my Nan and Grandad on the way home, and that nagging feeling returned.

We pulled up outside my house. The door was open, and there were people everywhere. I entered with caution and found my mum crying on the sofa.

“Sit down,” she said. Without giving me a chance, she told me something that no one ever wants to hear. “Your dad’s dead.”

I screamed and collapsed onto the floor in floods of tears. People flocked around me, hugging my limp body.

The next few days passed in a blur, and I suddenly found myself turning towards the church. We were confronted by at least ten motorcycles.

All dads’ friends, who he would ride with, had turned out to pay their respects. I walked into the church, feeling many emotions, but being proud of who my dad had been. Dressed in my bike leathers, and wearing tear-stained cheeks, I cried my way through hymns and speeches. As our chosen song, Aerosmith’s famous ballad, ‘I don’t wanna miss a thing,’ echoed through the church, tears filled the eyes of almost everyone there.

After the funeral, everyone was gathering round, offering their condolences. People were ringing up, and popping round the house every day, just to make sure we were doing okay. Sometimes I just wanted to sit and cry. Sometimes I did.

Four years later, I still think about my dad every day. I miss him a lot, but now I can look back on all the good, and the bad things that happened, and laugh about them. I will cherish these memories forever, and I will never forget him. And no matter how much they say time heals all, it still hurts after all this time.

Author's Note

I don't always write such depressing things, but this is one of my favourite things I have written. Would love some feedback :)