Write about a time you met someone new

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic


This was my response to my GCSE question "Write about a time you met someone new". Enjoy (hopefully) :)

Submitted: January 05, 2018

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Submitted: January 05, 2018

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Today’s the day, today’s the day I meet someone new. Not quite new though. To be honest, I’ve spent my entire life with this man. I’d lived with him, shared my every secret with him, hurt and trusted and cried with him, but I’ve never met him – until today. Today’s the day I meet myself.

I was born blind. Since birth, all I’ve ever seen was darkness: black with occasional flashes of searing light as doctor after doctor tried hopelessly to help me in this hellish life. All in vain though, after fifty years I hadn’t even seen the night sky. I hadn’t seen my wife’s face when I stumbled helplessly down to the ground to propose. I hadn’t even seen her face as we had our firstborn, or as the last tear rolled down her face when she passed away.

Today though, today I’m going to beat this perpetual prison that had tormented me all my life. Today I would see my own face.

I felt the technician fumble with the last latches on the headpiece. I heard as the haphazard doctors tried to hang the mirror precariously on the wall in front of me. I felt the vibrations of the computer as it began to send the impulses to the vision centres of my brain. Slowly, those dormant neurones flickered into life, sending out electrical cries to my brain celebrating their ecstatic revival, they resplendent resurrection.

Then, as synapse connected to synapse and light poured into the machine, I saw shapes. Squares and circles, vertices pointing out defiantly against the murky haze of my illness. Then, with painful slowness, details began to form: grains of wood stabbed out at me, the condensation on the mirror, the hairs on my head.

I focused on the reflection as it came to form. There he stood, there I stood. My hair flopping messily over my eye, with caution and subtle care I brushed it away to reveal my face.

Tufts of facial hair reflected brightly in the fluorescent lighting, each one of them blazing uglily against my complexion. Gazing up I met my own eyes, “Blue” I muttered as tears began to roll down my face. “Blue eyes and grey hair”, I touched the glass softly as I looked at the old man inside. The man whose eyes could never see sunlight, who had lived his life in the dark. Whose hands he had only now seen, my hands, old hands, battered and creased after years of toil, each line telling a story that my aged memory could only barely recollect.

I brought my hands together and sobbed as my fingers knitted into each other with a beautiful elegance. Then a resolve gripped my heart: if I could see me, I needed to see her. Wiping away glistening tears I delicately brought out the photo, my only treasured possession. With extraordinary care and practised precision, I turned the piece of card over to meet the eyes of my love.

Her hair flowed down her back and her eyes shone, her mouth frozen in a lying half-smile – she hated having her photo taken, but she was too beautiful not to.

“I’m sorry, sir” I heard a voice mumble as my vision slowly faded, returning me to the darkness. Sobbing, I clutched the frozen moment tight to my chest and muttered her a silent goodbye.


© Copyright 2020 tim south. All rights reserved.

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