Pitch Black - Part 4


Days fall away, time only spent studying sign language and reading. Then came the hand. It curled around the door frame, a knock without needing to hear. It tapped the wall a few times as I looked over to the movement. I knew as soon as I saw it. It was the hand of Sam, the hand of my best friend. As I tried to say a simple, 'hello' my voice broke down and only gave me a croak, or what felt like a croak. As soon as that small sound broke free he was in here. In here and lifting me off the ground like old times, and I couldn't help but smile. He began to form a word that looked like 'Sorry' but I couldn't be sure. As soon as he began to speak he abruptly stopped and dropped me on the bed.  I try to remember his voice, the husk and slight edge that made it his. The way he held onto his l's for slightly too long and how when he wasn't sure on something you heard the question mark. Thinking about this made tears form in my eyes. Seeing this, Sam grabbed a pad of paper from my desk and began to write. He told me how his day had gone, and I told him about mine. I told him how he was the first person to make me smile in three weeks. With this I saw a tear roll down his cheek. So I smiled. And he smiled. We passed the smile around until somehow we were both in fits of laughter. Every time the laughter seized Sam just pulled his trademark grin. Happiness was oozing out of us both. This is Sam's effect; he's had it all his life. That grin was what made us best friends. We knew what was inside every tiny crack and crevice in each other's mind.

Once the laughter had died we just sat. Not talking (it wasn't awkward. There was just nothing to say, that I could hear anyway...) I looked at Sam and I took in every small detail I could see; the way his hair flopped down to the left, the way his flannel shirt hung loosely at his sides, the sparkle that sat permanently in the edge of his blue eyes, the dimples that appeared when he smiled like he so often did, the way his jawline framed his face perfectly. The scar on his right cheek where he had walked into a wall. I knew that he had only ever broken one bone and it was his right index finger. I knew his fears and accomplishments. I knew more about him than I knew about myself.

I don't know who the silence was quieter for. We both just sat and conversed via my notebook, by the time Sam left we had filled up five pages with writing. We crossed each other's writing in a way no one else would be able to understand - just because that's how we always wrote notes. He left about midnight, it was cold, and snow still covered the streets because it was the 12th January. It was at that moment a flood of realisation occurred to me. I will probably never hear Christmas carols or the sounds of family again. Ever. And that was the hardest thing to realise. Realising you have just heard your last Christmas. That hits you like a bowling ball, right in the gut. As I realised this I felt like I was watching someone else's life fall apart. Not feeling mine. I saw a 15 year old girl fall to the floor like a piece of paper, scrunched up and tossed to the side. I saw tears stream down her face and I felt a pounding sensation in my stomach for her. Not me. Surely not.  It can’t be me. 

You Might Also Like