Just one last final thing.

All it takes sometimes is one thought

a scathing idea that passes quickly but makes your heart palpitate painfully

the kind of thought that makes you want to curl up in a ball and just breathe

but you can’t breathe

you can’t breathe because that one thought won’t leave you be,

you’re stuck in an endless twirl of one idea

forever experiencing the buzz of heartache -

in a way that you’ve never quite experienced before

it leaves you lightheaded as it continues to sing in your ear;

just one thing

then I’ll leave you be.

Just one thing

and I won’t be tarnishing your hands.

One last thing

and you won’t have to hear my nervous laugh

or see my closed off eyes,

just one last thing

and then I’ll let the tide consume me.

This is how you’ll find me

my hand reaching yet at the same time slowly withdrawing

I’ll close my eyes

and we’ll be older

and the sun will be shining

and that thought will have been swept off in the crash of the waves that allow me to breathe,

our ashen faces smiling at one another

the black holes under our eyes beginning to mend themselves

I wish I could look that far ahead

and fully believe in the possibility of it

but there’s just one thing

just one final thought

just one last thing

and I’ll be out of your hair forever.

Watch me from yesterdays darkness...

I see it now,

In the dark light of tomorrow

Where we drag our frozen bodies together in tandem,

Our hollow souls reaching for the sun,

We suffer in that darkness –

In this darkness that makes you believe that everything is alright.

You question my silence

You mistake it for anger

Frustration

Sadness.

But I’m stumbling towards tomorrow now

I’m getting further away from the things that are hurting me,

Maybe you should follow me,

Or maybe you should stay behind

Consumed by yesterday;

It’s not a good place to be.

But I won’t make you follow me,

I’ll go at my own pace and you’ll go at yours,

I’ll smile as I stumble

You’ll laugh as we fall.

Creative Writing Assignment - Someone you love or hate

Write about a person you love or hate.

 It’s the dirty blonde hair that first makes me smile, the Noel Gallagher haircut that he refuses to let Mum cut off, he’ll look imploringly up at her with his baby blues and that bright sparkle and the conversation will rest until it’s brought up again during dinner. I’ve always been fascinated by him, and both relieved and worried at that childish innocence he has tucked away in every corner of his personality, it’s refreshing to see again, even if it’s merely on the grainy laptop screen as he laughs and pounces into a monologue about Minecraft. The minutes on Skype trickle by but I don’t mind, he’s alone back home now, so I can give him this to help him get by.

I can recall as vividly as yesterday being back home, laughing at him when he runs after Percy (one of our much beloved cats), he loves that cat so much and it’s difficult to watch him when Percy doesn’t come home to have his dinner, it’s unsettling to hear the strain in his voice when he yells into the night, “Percy!!” he’s always worried about that cat. When Percy comes back and he’s dripping wet from the rain, his paws soaked through and muddy, Fred would be fluttering around the room with a towel before cuddling the cat to his chest so tight he squeaks like a toy. The towel he had around his furry black back slipping off and aiding a trail of paws to tattoo his Spiderman pyjamas. Mum would scold him, but I would know she was just as relieved.

I can remember when he’d cry, his eyes blood-shot and the brightest of blues, I’d hug him till the tears that would roll off his chubby cheeks stopped falling and started drying, then I’d stroke his hair and murmur a story until he’d fall asleep. It was times like that that my faith in humanity would be restored.

He’s smart and yet for an eleven year old he’s completely modest about it, even though he’s been put into an ‘elite group of mathematicians’ in his school he doesn’t boast, it’s one of the things that always befuddled and warmed me; the honest modesty that you simply cannot fake (even if he is quite the actor too…) When I lived back at home he would often barge into my room, regardless of whatever I was doing I would be subject to watching and listening as he told me in a series of arm waving and laughing about Tintin, his favourite comics or rather “Chesca they’re called graphic novels.”

Fred is like any other younger brother I’m sure, and I’m positive that if you have a sibling you can relate to the swell of emotion that dances in your stomach when you proudly tell a stranger about your brother, your sister, older or younger, that light-hearted feeling is often the same no matter how annoying they can be.