Jenga 93

Reads: 147  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 1

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: True Confessions  |  House: Booksie Classic
WARNING: Philosophical questions, and mentions of death and suicide

Submitted: April 15, 2015

A A A | A A A

Submitted: April 15, 2015



We had finally arrived. The car was filthy and hot, and my sweat had mixed with my tears in a way that made me look like I hadn’t slept in weeks. My mom was in the passenger seat, although it was dad driving her car, and at first I was surprised but she was crying so much that I knew that it would be dangerous for her to drive.

I don’t like to cry, because I had wasted so many years of tears on crap, but now it was okay to cry. I slid open the door, and almost fell out of the car. The walls around me reminded me of the game Jenga, there were indents that were in the walls that seemed to fit together perfectly. I had never been to this hospital before, and the smell of the ugly flowers was overpowered by the scent of over sterilized… well, everything.

I imagined my Great-Grannie lying helpless in bed as people shoved hand sanitizers in her face and rubbed her in sterilizing formulas. I laughed, the first time in all three days since I found out she was dying.

The automatic doors slid open, as if a greeting, but I already hated the place. The walls were a blank white, one wall plastered with “inspirational” quotes, and the rest of the walls had pictures of the most visually appealing places in the world. That’s what my mom told me.

I didn’t like the pictures; they just made me think that Grannie deserves better than just visual attraction, she deserves it all.

My dad went to the front desk, and talked to the reception lady. When she heard the name “Gladys Gibbons”, for a split second her brow creased and her eyes were filled with worry. She quickly resumed her plastic smile and fake happiness, as if that’s what we wanted to see. She hurried over the man from behind the desk who was organising papers, and he showed us the way to Grannie’s room.

The hallway was filled with the scent of burned plastic, and the man’s shoes clicked as he walked, his black greased-back hair was just as shiny as any other surface in the room. The floor was freshly polished, so were the mechanical contraptions that could somehow save lives, and so were his shoes, and so was the door handle on the door to my Grannie’s room.

In the room was Grampsy, a friend of Mom’s and Grampsy’s and Grannie, who was barely awake on the bed. Grannie’s arms were practically covered in wires, and her thin skin showed purple veins, and she was dotted with freckles and bruises. Although she looked like a sourpuss with her small mouth drawn tight, her eyes glowed warmly and her cold hands held Grampsy’s.

“Hey Grannie,” my mom wheezed, forcing herself to hold back her tears in front of the predeceased.

“Hi pun’kin,” Grannie purred, her small mouth parting into a wide smile, “I thought you’d never get here sweet.”

“Traffic,” I squeaked, partially hiding behind my mom. I couldn’t handle seeing her like this, both of them.

Her eyes drifted off my mom and wavered towards me, watery and yet clear. Somehow she managed to stretch her mouth into an even wider smile, and she let go of Grampsy’s hands.

“Hello, sweetpea. Come here, why don’t you, so I can see you better,” her hands reached towards me, as if bracing for a bursting hug, like I used to do when I was so young.

I nodded, and sat beside her bed, holding one of her hands, looking at her and trying to memorise every detail, the smile wrinkles by her mouth, the color of her eyes, the things I can no longer remember.

The adults talked in the background, and my brother sat by Grannie, but on the other side of the bed, not taking her hand but looking at it in longing. I laid my head down on the blankets, watching as Grannie closed her eyes slowly and drifted off into an everlasting slumber. My Great Grandmother Gladys Gibbons died at the age of 93.

Ever since she died, I had been different. I would sit in my room for hours, thinking about life. Death. What it all meant.

What is life? Life is a huge mess, started by an accident, growing into a planet of greens blues and all of the other millions of colors. Technically, that makes us all an accident. Our birth, our times of failure, our times of achievement. All we really are is an organism, a temporary organism that only cares for itself, builds walls only to burn down someone else’s wall for our own survival.

In the scheme of things, who are we? Who are we, to point fingers and move the earth to satisfy the tiny speck in this vast universe that is us? Who are we to destroy the one thing that keeps us alive, and who cares? Because, in the whole scheme of things, what we do, doesn’t affect anything. We center ourselves in the universe when in the end we just die. Why don’t I just die.

Why don’t I?

I haven’t travelled to outer space, I haven’t harnessed space and time, and it’s doubtful that I ever will.

She never did.

So why should I?

I had these thoughts daily, talking myself into the fact that I was not worth it. Who knows if I am. But, at the time I was ready.

I was ready to end it all. Cut the string that held me so fragile over the glass shards of the unknown: Death. But, I didn’t. My fears overtook me every time I began, it was never fulfilled. My fear, the fear of all life; Death.

Should I die? Should I die?

I waited. I waited for a ray of sunshine to fall on me, waited for the clouds to part, to the fog to clear so that I could push forward. I never found that ray, the clouds never parted, the fog never cleared. My dearest friends and family has pushed away the curtain and held back the fog, so that I can bask in the sunlight.

But, everyone needs to rest.

And as they care for themselves. I am left behind in the shadows, as the fog closes in. The sun will shine once more, and once more there will be blue skies. But will I live to see them?

Will the depression that’s grown in me since first grade, the black tumor overtaking my body, will it shrink? Will it shrivel up inside of me, and die? Or, will I die first?

Who knows, but this is my path, and I know that I will always push for a road into the blank, starry, deep universe. Just like how a Jenga tower falls, my life fell into place. This is how I learned, that everything is temporary.

© Copyright 2018 Evangelina Samuell. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:




More True Confessions Short Stories