In Memory Read online

  In Memory

  This book is the property of Aerian Summer O’Malley-Guildenstern, and it is labelled as such to prevent anyone else from looking inside, so if you’re even reading this far, I suggest you put this away right now!

  Ha!

  187 Days, 27 August, Wednesday

  Happy birthday me. Terra (my older sister) bought me a carrot cake today. I was delighted that she bought it instead of trying to make it from scratch like last year. This year, I won’t be getting a stomach ache for a birthday present. This is the first personal journal I’ve ever kept, so I’m not exactly sure how to proceed. My name is Aerian Summer O’ Malley-Guildenstern. Although, I often neglect to acknowledge the Summer and O’Malley part, because I think the full thing is a bit of an overwhelmingly laughable handle.

  We got mostly moved into our new house. This city is way bigger than the little town we used to live in, but Terra got an excellent job opportunity at the major hospital here. She inquired about getting a job for me too, (since I requested it) and luckily, I got a job helping in the kitchen because of her reference.

  So it’s all set for the following Monday after school.

  Originally, Terra and I are from Ireland, but we moved here to Canada when I was just over ten years old. That was after both our parents died, and Terra had gotten her full RNA certificate.

  In retrospect, I wondered if we moved so Terra could move on. I still remember them, my parents, but pictures seem to be the only way I remember how they looked. I can still recall clearly how they felt, like Mum would always feel sad and gentle, somehow, and Dad would be strong and caring. I guess remembering these traits are more important than being able to visualize them perfectly in my mind.

  But I suspect that Terra probably has clearer memories.

  Today, I’m exactly eighteen, and Terra turned twenty-seven over the summer.

  We celebrated her birthday with a bunch of relatives, and, even though I have a bit of our burr, I couldn’t understand half of them through their strong Irish accents.

  So, now that I’m back here, I’ve discovered that my own brogue is decidedly stronger than when I left.

  When we were in Ireland, I received a letter that my Mum wrote to me before she died. It was in our old house, which our Aunt Ceilidh had taken over when we left. Apparently, when she was cleaning my old room in anticipation of our arrival, she found the letter amongst all Mum’s old books.

  Since the letter was safely tucked between two larger books, it was both preserved and well-hidden for the entire eight years we were gone.

  When I opened it, there was only a small note inside, which I’ve pasted in here, it reads,

  A stóirín, (this means ‘little love’ or something, it was her nickname for me)

  Mommy loves you, and she’s sorry.

  And enclosed with this letter was a large sheet of paper, folded several times, with a bunch of weird symbols on it.

  Through the month of February of next year, I saw a big black shape. I wondered what that meant.

  When I showed it to Aunt Ceilidh, she dropped her teacup right onto the floor.

  Needless to say, I was surprised.

  Apparently, the paper was a sort of horoscope chart of my life, and… well, it predicted the end of my life towards the end of February. Which is a sort of heavy idea to be crashing on my head. Aunt Ceilidh murmured something about how if she had known, she never would have given me the letter.

  That’s a little more than six months… which really isn’t enough time.

  Terra looked at the horoscope too, and got a very dark expression on her face. “It’s wrong, Mum got it wrong.” She then stood up and walked away quickly. Something crashed in the kitchen.

  Aunt Ceilidh placed her withered hand over mine, “Do you think you’re going to die according to this, Aerian?”

  Weird question, but I answered. “Mum was good at this stuff, yeah?” She nodded, so I smiled weakly, “Then I suppose I am.”

  “I am sorry, a stóirín.”

  We went home a few days after that, and Terra seems to be ignoring the entire incident. People often operate under the assumption that if you ignore things, they will likely go away.

  Terra also bought me a new journal, which I was delighted to receive. It has pears on the front cover, and smells really good, kind of like cinnamon. I expect she found it in the boutique; everything in there has that similar smell.

  Kept having vivid dreams all summer. Every night, I dreamt of flying. High in the sky, I could even go above the clouds. Often, I was stuck in a building, unable to fly that high. I also dream of angels…

  Not the biblical version of angels, all blond, curly-haired and plump. My angels look different.

  I saw him, that angel… my angel, the one I’ve seen in my dreams since I was young. He grew up with me, and was always with me since I was twelve or so.

  He’s fragile. In all ways. Although I estimate his age to be around my own (estimation is necessary, I dunno how angels age, or if they age…)

  He has shoulder-length black hair, and his skin is so pale that bruises appear brightly contrasted against it. I don’t know why he’s always injured, but he always appears that way. Crying in a corner with his wings folded around him, making him look even smaller. He’s blind in his left eye. It’s always blackened too, as if he has a permanent bruise ringing around it. The deep red-purple really sets off the contrast between it and his milky-white iris.

  And he was crying out, always reaching for me. I kept trying to grab his hands, pull him away from whatever was making him cry.

  Last night, I did grab hold of him; he fell into my embrace, his arms wrapped tightly around me. When I looked down, I saw his wings were sewn to his back. They pulled at the flesh and bled copiously from the stitches, sending streaks of blood along the silky white fabric.

  Abruptly, there was a pair of scissors in my hand, so I got to work cutting those horrible wings from his back.

  It was weird. The more I cut them off, the more he cried and his fingers dug into my back painfully.

  At last, I snipped the last of the wings from his back and he stopped clutching me so tightly.

  He pulled away, looking at me curiously.

  The look in his eyes, it was so real; nothing like a dream.

  I need to apologise for cutting his wings off. How will he fly away now?

  179 Days, 1 September, Monday

  Now that school has started, these entries might be a bit more frequent.

  Today was the first day of Grade 12, and I saw him again. I saw my angel. He walked by me in the hallway today and I ended up following him to the library, very sneakily. I’m pretty proud of how ninja-like I am sometimes.

  Shifting into a narrative now, I’m sure it’ll suit it more than a summary. The narrative will probably be in weird tenses, I don’t like sticking with present or past. Some things just sound better in one or the other. So… yeah.

  Watching him sit there, I vaguely wonder if my lingering gaze is coming across as unnerving. He doesn’t seem to be paying attention to me, though, and I wonder how a conversation with him would go.

  ‘Hi there!’

  ‘Go away. I’m dark and moody and prefer to be alone with my thoughts.’

  Hmm, can see that happening. However, nothing ventured, nothing gained, right? Okay, here goes.

  (Why is my heart beating so fast?)

  Should describe what he looks like right now to establish a more exact picture of what is going on.

  He’s tucked away in the darker corner of the library, where the World Events and History books are, which students have abandoned in favour of the internet. Those books are situated in a little alcove, so he’s hardly noticeable. From his posture, he looks like he’s sleeping, but I can s
ee that dull shine in his one visible blue eye. His face is mostly covered by a thick cascade of black hair, which falls almost to his shoulders.

  Could only imagine he had been wearing his clothes for several days. There’s dirt all over his tight white turtleneck, and smudges of rust brown on the sleeves. He’s hunched over against the shelves holding the encyclopaedias, with his arms wrapped around himself like it’s cold. Or he’s ill. I looked out the window at the summery atmosphere, figuring his chill has nothing to do with the weather.

  As I approached him, I also noticed that he was shaking, almost shivering. He really doesn’t look well.

  Using the guise of perusing the history books, I flashed him what was described as me ‘dopey but genuine smile’. Terra is powerless to that smile; it puts her in a good mood no matter how angry she might have been. It’s a clumsy brother’s best weapon.

  Anyway.

  He doesn’t react at all, except to draw himself tighter, hiding his bright blue eye from me. He coughed quietly with this movement, his thin shoulders shaking. Eesh, he must really be sick.

  I knelt down; don’t think he noticed me until I touched him on the head.

  He jumped so violently that he hit the back of his head on the bookshelf with an audible ‘thwack’ sound.

  Instinctively, I put my hands out to steady him, which apparently was an unwise course of action to take. He cried out, and smacked my hand away, before erupting into an emphatic coughing fit.

  Really didn’t know what to do.

  As the coughing slowed, he seemed to try to speak to me, probably to choke out the aforementioned ‘go away.’

  “I’m sorry…” he gasped eventually, beads of sweat dotting his forehead, “Are you hurt? I’m sorry.”

  He kept repeating apologies, between soft coughs. Kept my distance, out of concern for his comfort instead of my safety. Now that I was close to him, I could see bruises across his jaw and around his blind eye. Apart from the purplish swelling of the bruises, several cuts sparsely populated his pale thin face, partially healed and glistening. He blinked at me blearily, looking pained and more than a little confused. He was so sick…

  I reached for him slowly, my movements careful and deliberate, conveying the message of my lack of hostility. He still flinched at my touch, but relaxed when my movements proved friendly.

  Wondered who beat him up, because it’s obvious someone had. I’m guessing a male, just from his extreme overreaction when I first touched him.

  “Are you okay?” I mentally rolled my eyes after asking that. Stupid question, of course he wasn’t okay. “Can you walk? I can take you to the nurses’ station.”

  “N-no. They always ask questions…” his voice escaped through his cut lips like tiny gusts of wind, barely shaping themselves into words.

  “You need help.” I maintained, placing both my hands on his shoulders. He looked at me, and I could see pure shock on his face, like he can’t believe I said that.

  “I need… help.” He echoed, his voice trembling. This statement seemed to be a new realisation for him.

  I swallowed, unsure of how to respond to that. “Umm, okay… can you stand? Come with me, yeah?”

  He complied weakly, trembling as he placed his hand in mine. Something sharp pricked my palm as he touched me. I turned his hand over and discovered thick shards of glass buried amidst the raw bloodied flesh of his palm.

  Something fluttered in my chest as I touched his hand, a strange mixture of emotions. Felt sad, maybe hopeful.

  Figuring questions would only delay the help he needed; I wrapped my arm around his waist and hoisted him beside me as best I could.

  In spite of my concern for him, and the disturbing sight of his injuries, I felt almost happy. The feeling twirled around in my chest at his proximity, accelerating as he leaned into my support. This contact was exciting, even amidst the circumstances. I shook my head, making my hair brush against…

  What’s his name? I know I’ve heard it before. I think it starts with a ‘T’.

  “Hey,” we walked through the library door- the librarian was absent, “What’s your name?”

  “What…? Noah.” He replied in a shaky voice.

  Okay, so I was way off on my thoughts of ‘T’.

  The health station is a tiny room behind the office, with one single bed, a cabinet, a chair, and a table with a lamp. There’s also a huge stack of paper in there.

  Because of a previously announced staff meeting, Noah and I made it there without any interference.

  As I was debating on whether or not to take him to the hospital, Noah dropped heavily onto the bed, wincing slightly. He was lying on his side, facing me, with his legs draped halfway over the edge of the bed.

  “Um…” I began talking before I realised I had nothing to say, “Um… can I help you…?”

  Noah’s eyes met mine for a moment, before casting their icy gaze to the crisp white sheet he lay on.

  “Please…” he whispered, lifting his arm, displaying the wounds on his palm, shamefacedly staring at the sheet, “Can you help me with this?”

  I braced his injured hand within my own, sinking into the chair and inspecting it. “I think it’s infected… it’s going to need cleaning out.”

  He moved his head a bit, a movement I deemed to be a nod, but it was difficult to translate due to his position on the mattress. I pivoted in the chair, pulling the drawer of the plastic cabinet open with my left hand while maintaining my hold on his with my right hand.

  Could feel his gaze on me as I rummaged through the medical supplies, smiling despite the situation. At last, I found a pair of tweezers, some antiseptic, some gauze pads and bandages.

  With a reassuring smile, I commenced the removal of the glass from Noah’s hand. I could still feel his eyes on me, which was a little unnerving. As I picked out a particularly large piece of glass I could see a flinch spasm up his arm, breaking his ice blue stare for the first time. I squeezed his hand gently, a silent reassurance, which seemed to calm him.

  The next few minutes passed in silence, save for the click-click of the tweezers and the clacking of the glass as I placed it on the night-table.

  “Now, what’s your favourite colour?” I asked, calmly picking out a few pieces of glass that weren’t buried very deep.

  “What?”

  “What’s your favourite colour?” I repeated, looking over the raw wounds for any more cuts.

  His eyes met mine for a second and then he looked down. “I don’t know.” he mumbled eventually.

  “I like light blue, and I also like red.” the soft smile never left my face.

  “I guess I like those.”

  “You don’t have any other favourites?” I tweezed out what looked to be the last of the glass.

  “…Green.”

  “Hm, green is nice. Trees and grass and stuff. You must like summer too, then.”

  “Yeah, autumn too.”

  “Yeah, autumn is nice. What’s your favourite dessert?”

  “Why are you asking me all these questions?”

  “How else do you get to know someone, hm?”

  He frowned and looked away, “I’m not the sort of person you would want to know.”

  “Well I never know until I try, right?” I countered, unable to stifle my perpetual optimism.

  He looked at me incredulously.

  Wasn’t entirely sure what to do, so I grabbed the disinfectant. As I cleaned his wounds, I watched his expression discreetly, noticing how he bit his lip and looked down.

  I thought of another question, spreading out the disinfectant. “Where do you live?”

  “2514 Oakshield Street. Where… do you live?” His reply was awkward; I don’t think he’s ever had a conversation like this.

  “I live in the house with the red door on Kite Street. 103-12 or something.”

  “Oh… I know that place.”

  I put the gauze pad over the mess of wounds, pressing it in place and wrapped it in with the other ba
ndages.

  “There, all fixed.”

  “How did you know how to do this so well?” he examined the bandages, moving his hand experimentally.

  “I work part-time at the Central Hospital. As a kitchen slave for now, but I’m gonna be a nursing aid when I get older, so I’m getting training from a real nurse!”

  It was at this point that I realised I was going to be late for said part-time work.

  “Wah! I’m gonna be late for work!” I clapped my hand to my head, standing up in a rush. “I’m sorry! I gotta go!” I grabbed my bag, “Are you gonna be okay here? I could give you my cell number!”

  He looked confused, “I don’t even know your name yet.”

  Oh my god, duh! “My name is Aerian Guildenstern! Which usually prompts a great deal of laughter, so feel free to!” I walked backwards to the door as I spoke, “You’re Noah. I’ll remember, we’re friends! I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? I gotta go!” I smiled winningly, “See ya!”

  Then I booked it, leaving him there looking incredibly confused.

  That was my day today; I think it’s way better in first person narrative as the events happening. When I read it over, it’s like I’m experiencing it all again. It’s prolly more interesting for the reader to read it that way too.

  Anyway, think it’s about time I went to bed. Work tomorrow too, right after school.

  Oh, right. Tonight for supper I made a really good chicken and pineapple dish. Thank goodness I’m better at cooking than Terra.

  Goodnight all.

  178 Days, 2 September, Tuesday

  Noah wasn’t at school today. Was crushed. Was going to talk to him more, and actually find out what his favourite dessert is, since I neglected to press the question yesterday. But he wasn’t there today…Oh well.

  Finished reading a book today. For me, reading a book becomes my own personal death. Every time I finish the last page, linger on the last piece of punctuation, I feel I have taken the next step to the end of my story. With each book finished, so ends one chapter of my own. My life is compounded of all these other lives, written and edited in a fashion that mocks the rough copy that is real life.