Sound The Bugle

Reads: 22  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Young Adult  |  House: Booksie Classic
My draft creative writing piece for my English HSC Exam. It's meant to be based on how memories can relate to belonging.

Submitted: January 10, 2012

A A A | A A A

Submitted: January 10, 2012

A A A

A A A


I look at the photographs every now and then. I don’t know why though, it only brings painful memories to the forefront of my mind. The lake, the house, the gardens. Everything had it’s own unique story, it’s own special meaning and everything had imprinted itself in my mind.
I remember thinking that the house was more of a manor than a house, with the large chocolate Labrador we named Sebastian. I remember cooking in the pristine kitchen, with you coming up behind me with a gift from the times you traveled, and I remember us painting our room, both of us getting more paint on ourselves then on the walls.
The smell of the peppermint oil your mother had given me as a birthday gift which Sebastian knocked over that we could never get out of the carpet has also stained my memory. I’d lie on that rug for hours when you were away, Sebastian curled up at my side, resting his large head on my stomach. Somehow, the smell had reminded me of you.
I remember the day we moved into the house, you blind-folded me and carried me down to the lake, which I hadn’t even known was there to begin with. When you took the blindfold off, you kissed me on the nose before throwing me in. I yelled at you before pulling you in too. That was before we built the weir and bought the boat.
I was studying law, you were an architect. You laughed at my determination to become a lawyer, and complained that I spent too much time with my nose buried in books, instead of spending my time with him. When I tried to defend myself by saying I was trying to learn something useful, you replied by quoting our mantra: ‘the greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.’
The photographs don’t do us justice, my love. You were always more handsome and beautiful in person than in any photograph that was taken of you. Even that portrait that the artist you paid so much for was in no way shape or form anything like you. Your icy blue eyes which to me always seemed to be so warm. Your blonde hair which was so light it was almost white. Sometimes, I don’t even believe that my memory does you justice.
We shared so many wonderful and beautiful times with each other, and although people never agreed that we should be together, I still believed that you were the only man that I could ever love, and that I would ever want to be with.
More vividly than any other memory, was the moment that I lost you. It replays over and over in my mind in slow-motion, the fall from the roof-top, the ladder coming out from under you. It was almost as if I couldn’t get to you fast enough. Time seemed to stretch out before me as I ran to you. As I held you in my arms, you asked me to forgive you, asked me to learn how to trust again. I shook my head and said that there was nothing to forgive, and that I’d always love you. When you told me that you loved me, and kissed me on the tip of my nose for the last time, I couldn’t keep myself from crying. You closed your eyes and was carried off into the back of the ambulance.
The next day, I went to the hospital to see you, only to find that you had already been discharged. I was dragged out by the police when I refused to leave without an explanation. I returned to our home to find a ‘for sale’ sign out the front and all of your belongings gone. I was threatened by the police again when I fought against a representative from the pound when he said he had come to take Sebastian. By now, my arms were covered in bruises from the police and their firm grip, and my heart was broken, as well as my spirit.
Now, I sit in a small, snow white, cold room. I disgust myself with how pathetic I’ve become. I never finished the course in law, and I never bought anything that smelt of peppermint ever again. I could never hold on to another relationship, breaking it off always within a week. I'm a soldier, wounded, so I must give up the fight.
I keep the photographs in an old box under my bed, along with petals from the first rose, the black ribbon and the necklace you called the key to your heart. I don’t have any of your letters, you took them with you.
When I’m asleep, I dream of home, the place where we belong. I dream of the lake, the weir that we built and lay on during those short summer night, gazing up at the stars. I dream of Sebastian, the chocolate Labrador we hand-raised from a puppy, training him to be the most obedient dog the world had ever seen.
When I fall asleep, I am safe again. I’m happy again.
I remember all the good things, all the laughter and smiles.
I am home.
I belong.


© Copyright 2017 Chloe Rose. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:

More Young Adult Short Stories

Booksie 2017-2018 Short Story Contest

Booksie Popular Content

Other Content by Chloe Rose

Sound The Bugle

Short Story / Young Adult

Popular Tags