In the middle of the hall in between classes, I am lost on an island and don't dare to swim away much farther than the side for fear of being swept under the treacherous currents surrounding me. I am isolated in a swirling tide of those my own age. When a voice talks to me, the only voice that talks to me, the voice throws me a life raft to pull me away from the isolation of the island. It is my older brother, an island too, but an island much more often visited by the world. It is him talking to me, pushing me along to my next class, that keeps me from being eaten by silence. Though I am trapped in my wheelchair on my island, I feel trapped in my mind, too. There is a kraken of silence wrapping its tendrils around my head, and I am trying to keep it out, but with no legs one cannot run from their problems. After wandering the island of isolation during my classes, it is time to hang onto my life raft on the way home.
School is out for the eternity called summer, and I am safe from being dropped onto the island during the day. The silent night however, is a different story. No matter what day, during the night, the dark island suffocates me. It fills my lungs and pulls me under into the oblivion of loneliness. It is my life raft that pulls me from the underwater abyss before I can no longer go on.
My parents suffocate me like the night. They are voluminous raindrops, pouring onto the island and choking me. Rain drops are good for drinking, but they can drown you if you drink too much. These are the rain drops that tell me I need to learn to swim without my life raft. The raindrops say that I need to find some dolphins to help me escape from the island of loneliness.
School had begun again, and it sent the yearly never ending hurricane to my lonesome island. My life raft wrapped around me when I was scared and lifted me up f from the deep. During the winter break, my life raft positioned my dysfunctional legs into a sled and pushed me down the snowy driveway. The raindrops filmed us having such a great time. They had salty oceans coming out of their eyes, but as to why, I don't know. It was peculiar. Later in an endless week, I found my wheelchair decorated with Christmas tinsel.
This was the winter that my raindrop injured himself. At the time of the injury he was rolling my island down a particularly steep mountain. I had gotten older, and heavier too. It was too much for him to handle, and he slipped tearing 4 muscles in his back, but never letting go of my wheelchair as we slid down the hill. I cried during the dark, endless silence, knowing it was my island that had proven too much for him to handle. It was always too heavy for anyone who tried to help me besides my life raft.
There are many strange and peculiar events that happen in this world. The beginning of the war, for example was one. It was an anvil tied to thousands of people's feet and dropped over the ocean. More anvils were tied to more people's feet, sinking their screaming mouths into the depths. The war was so far away yet so close.
Over the next year, our town began shrinking one by one. Many children had an unshakeable gray haze over their eyes, and I began to wonder why this was happening. Our neighbor left without a word, and left his barking dog behind. No one would ever explain to me why, and I felt more trapped on my island than ever. Meanwhile, my injured father was bed ridden due to complications in his back injury. I felt, even if it was for one moment, as if he knew what it was like to be trapped inside your body, not free to move and live.
Numbers dwindled down into even smaller numbers in the town, and I noticed, though I was staring from my island, that most of the missing persons were male adults. One particular scene that my life raft and I passed by on the way to school was a tearful family waving to a car pulling out of the driveway. The father figure was missing as the family clutched together for support.
The day that the man in the olive green suit knocked crisply on our door, I knew that something was to happen to our family. His loud brassy voice conveyed little emotion, but my mother, who had answered the door, was a 10. Her high pitched, halting voice, was loud as she tried to remain composed, using a tone I didn't usually associate to my mother. The man in the olive green suit, who didn't want to discuss whatever they were talking about, promptly handed her official-looking papers before turning sharply on his heel and marching out of the door frame.
My mother, who didn't know I was spying on her from the kitchen, screamed in anguish and in rage, pounding on the door until it shook on its hinges like people's knees before making a speech onstage. Of course, I'm just assuming, because this is what I've read in books. Tears flash flooded her face, raining their way onto her shirt. Her hysteria was a painful infliction upon me because I could not fix or save her, since I didn't even know what she was in such a state for. Something I have also learned in books, was that the person under unbearable emotional pain needs to tire themselves into a more stable environment before being approached. Four more minutes of this pain, and suddenly the sobs stopped, slowing down to whimpers. I figured this was just as good a time as any to talk about the catastrophic event that shook her, but when I finally reached her, after dodging all of the obstacles, she was curled into a fetal position of the floor, asleep.
When my father arrived home, and finally my life raft, my mother began to stir on the couch. It had taken around a half hour to wheel her over to the couch, due to my limp legs. At first, my father nearly blew an artery, but soon after my explanation he seemed more calm. As my mother regained consciousness, we all crowded around her, anxious and apprehensive to hear the story. My mother's eyes landed on my brother and they filled with salty water.
Two weeks and lots of crying, protests, rage, couldn't stop the flow of fate that swept my brother away and into the rapids. His new, olive green uniform would make him look as sharp as a tack under other circumstances. His brave eyes betrayed him as we said our final goodbyes, watering with the pain of a boy being snatched from his family and friends and placed into the enemy's arms. All I could think about was about as he bent down to hug me, one last final time, was my life raft, slowly being sucked away from my island by the strongest of currents. The car pulled away, taking away part of my figurative heart.
Breakfast and dinner were silent, just like the night. The silverware's clanking rang through the air too loudly, and we silenced it by delicately eating, not that we had much of an appetite anyway. I couldn't eat, like I couldn't sleep. It felt as if when they took him away, they took away some of most normal things I could do.
The guilt of my father crushed him like a boulder. He often cried in his sleep, which is rather frightening for me, as my father had been always as reliable as the ran I so often compared him to.
As for me, it felt as if someone had hacked out a piece of my figurative heart. (I hated when people said that 'A boy crushed my heart' because he did not smash your heart, he merely made you feel sad in your figurative heart.) The days ticked by in a slow gray blur, none having the pops of color he added to the canvas. Rolling through the halls was difficult, and seemed to produce a whispering hum in the background, as if the sea was apologizing for the strong currents that carried him away. Rolling as a whole was difficult as this strange pressing weight from above drove me into my permanent seated position and tightened with each strangled breath.
Two years from that time, we got a letter. It was on golden colored paper, and it was from the color alone that I judged it bearing good news. I knew something was wrong with the color of that paper the second I saw my mother's face crumple like her knees. My dad fell soon after, dropping to the floor and holding the letter as if it were his life line. I slowly scooted over, avoiding limbs at all cost, and grabbed the letter with apprehension.
Eight years almost to the day, we had no word of him, and the golden paper was posted onto our calendar as a reminder of hope and of the impossible. With everyday that passes from now until the end of time, I will miss him and hope he returns home soon. And while my chest has gotten lighter and I had less trouble breathing, the piece he had taken through my figurative heart will always be there for when he does return home.
Reflection:
I worked hard on using descriptive language in my writing. I also tried to use more descriptive words for more commonly used words.
I am proud of my work on
I'd like to work on creating more of an attachment to the brother before he is shipped off to war. I would like the reader to feel more emotion when reading this story.