A short story

They say that the heart can beat only so fast, but when I place my hand over my chest I can only feel a constant buzz. I try to slow my breath by closing my eyes and simply feeling the rise and fall beneath my fingers, but I still can't rid myself of the sick feeling that gathers in my stomach and the shivers that catch hold to my spine. I open my eyes to peer into the mirror before me. I see the face of a thirteen-year-old boy, one with the pale skin, dark eyes and high nose of his father, and the broad-built frame of his mother. He is wearing leather pants and a cotton shirt of no particular fancy. I sigh and my reflection copies me, just as a gust of cold air suddenly floats in through the lavatory window and ruffles my hair, I shiver from the cool breeze and rub my arms which are covered in goose-bumps under the thin, cotton sleeves. I am about to close my eyes again when a sudden shout from upstairs startles me. Once overcoming the shock I reach out to yank open the lavatory door and scurry down the main hall before racing to the bottom of the stairs, barely hearing the door swing shut behind me with a loud bang. I turn my head up to try and peer over the banister - as if I can see that high up - before the pounding of feet distracts me. My father appears over the side railing, his face anxious and painted with stress and worry. He beckons for me to hurry and I quickly bound up the staircase two at a time. We scamper down the long narrow corridor leading to my little sister, Janette's bed-chamber. The door is closed when we reach her room, and Father glances sideways at me before turning the door-handle and stepping in. I quickly brace myself, taking a deep breath, before following. Inside the walls are washed down with cream and the colour of pink rosettes, which contrast the dark, wooden floorboards. Aside from a single bed against the back wall, there is not much else that would hint the idea of a bedroom. Janette lies still under the covers and quilt of her bed; the only thing visible of her are the ginger plaits that are sprawled wildly over her pillow. Mother and Governess Jane are sitting on the edge of her bed; Mother holding Janette's small hand, her face ashen and grey. For a moment I simply stare. I remember the cheerful, pink-cheeked girl who ran down the corridors like a madman whenever she saw her older brother come home from school. The laughing, little monkey who loved climbing trees, and got countless scolding's from her governess for ripping her petticoat. And now here she lays. A fallen soldier.

Unaware of the tears that are falling faster down my pale cheeks, I shake my head. It can't be happening - it isn't true. It can't be true. Father comes to put an arm around me, and says something that comes out in a blur of words and the space around me suddenly seems so far away and in a jumble.

I shake my head harder and wrench myself out of Fathers grasp and dash out the door. I fly down the stairs and bolt out the front gate with speed and adrenaline I never knew I had. Oblivious to where I'm going, I keep running, faster and harder until my sides ache, but still I keep running; as though I could run forever.

It isn't until I trip over something hard and solid and land face first on the ground, that reality washes over me like a tidal wave. Hands grip my shoulders and haul me up to my feet, and my face is turned to look into one of the kindest faces I've ever seen. However old or wrinkled he may be, the old man's eyes still twinkle, "Ye right there, boy?"

I shake my head and the old man's hands relax to his sides. He nods his head as though in thought and his eyes travel to a painting canvas on a rack just beside him. He then bends over to pick up some empty paint-cans off the floor - they must've been what I tripped on - as he straightens up again, he goes back to the painting and goes to sit on a stool just in front of it. Taking into his hand a thick brush, he begins to continue a purple streak at the top of the canvas. As I look at the painting, I notice that it is an exact replica of Central Square which is where we are currently, with its busy market stalls and its crowd of pedestrians. Except in the painting, it is not the morning, but rather the twilight evening, which explains the purple paint the man is using. There is not a soul to be seen in the picture, except for a girl in a long white dress, hair loose and barefoot, who appears to be… dancing… in the rain. I must of made a weird face, because the man turns to me and smiles.

"That 'ere, boy," he gestures towards the girl, "Was me daughter." He smiles almost sadly.

I must've looked confused because he then says, "She loved to dance, that she did. Danced almost anywhere - could've kept dancing forever."

"What happened to her?"

At that, he frowns, then closes his eyes and hangs his head, shaking it.

"A sickness." Is all he says quietly.

I understand what he means and I say to him, "I know."

At that he chuckles softly and raises his head to me, shoving his hand into his pocket, before drawing it out again, bringing with it a small piece of paper. With the paper between his fingers, he begins to prise it open gently, and then suddenly it is no longer just a piece of crumpled paper; it is a small paper boat.

He then takes my hand and places it in my palm, closing my fingers over it.

"Take it, son," his hands are warm over mine, "you'll need it."

...

That night as I lay in bed, I hear the soft sounds of the trees rustling outside, and the little sparrows going to their nests. In my hand I clutch the small paper boat under the white sheets. When I got home from my chat with the man in Central Square, I went straight to my room, banging the door shut behind me, and lay in bed for the rest of the afternoon, unable to face my family after my sudden exit. Now I lay staring out the window, down at the empty, abandoned streets.

Then, it hits me. I sit up in bed suddenly, feeling the paper boat under my fingertips. Then I know what I'm to do. I walk, almost in trance out my bedroom door, down the corridor and down the stairs. I quietly shut the front door behind me and practically float down the street in a daydream. My legs continue to guide me street after street, 'til they stop right on the edge of Central Square. It is a full moon and its pale, eerie light shimmers down into the square, and then… I see her.

I watch her sway and leap in a manner so graceful and delicate it catches hold of my breath. I stand so still, and there isn't a sound to be heard. Her wild, orange hair flicks 'round her head as she flitters around on her bare feet using the whole space of the square. She is wearing, just as described before, a long, white night-gown that twirls around her. Her eyes are closed as a light shower begins to rain down from the purple-washed sky. It might just be from the moon reflecting the lavender night against the rain-droplets or it might just be that a miracle is being performed, but as I glance up, it seems the gods are pouring down rain the colour of purple agapanthuses.

When I look back to the girl, she has stopped dancing and as I continue to stare, she walks over to me; each step placed with purpose and understanding. From a distance the girl looked tall and feminine, but as she walks closer to me 'til she standing right in front of me, I can see that she is barely taller than my shoulder, and as I continue to watch her, her face suddenly becomes the so familiar face that I know. Everything about her I know; the way her eyes dance like shooting stars, the way her cheeks flush with rosy colour, her orange hair wavy from being just taken out from plaits. Janette.

My lips murmur her name and she reaches out to take hold of my hand, which looks so big and bulky against her small, delicate one. She smiles her brilliant, full-lipped smile and leads me across the now deserted square, and over to a drainage-pipe on the opposite side, which is gushing with tiny waves of water. She then prises off my fingers from the paper boat which is still clutched tightly in my palm, now crumpled and small. She carefully unfolds it and smooths it out, before taking my hand and placing it on the paper boat next to her own. Then she speaks.

"Pain," she whispers, so softly I have to strain my ears to hear her, "Change." She looks up from the boat which she has been contently staring at.

She then rises onto her tip-toes, so that she can lean in over my shoulder.

"Let go, Jacque," she breathes into my ear. I gaze at her, affectionately or sadly I cannot really tell.

We then both kneel down beside the drain, the water still flooding the streets, and together, place the small, paper boat in the petite river, before watching it sail away, down the street, along with our memories of past times… and pain.

THE END

I am dedicating this story to all the people out there who are or have experienced pain or loss, because sometimes we need to be gently reminded that we are not the only ones with feelings. I, myself understand what you are going through, and I believe we should all, like Jacques, let go and move on with our lives, as that is what our loved ones would want.

Don't let pain stop you. You are not alone, and you will always have everyone there to support you. Always.

I couldn't really decide on a title for this story - I had too many ideas. But I managed to narrow it down to two, and I'd like you guys, the readers, to decide for me.

What do you prefer? 'In the Purple Rain' or 'Paper Boats and Purple Rain'? Or do you have other ideas for story titles? Comment what you think.

I have decided to rate this day a 9 out of 10 - partly because I finally decided to come back to write, basically my first 'official' post - and partly because to today, I competed with some friends in a reading competition, and guess what? We won!

Thank you so much to those of you who read my blog, I am planning on posting weekly, so stay tuned and subscribe!

Until next time.

- MonaMoopsa xx