>•~Falling Upwards~•<

Chapter Thirteen: A Letter of Hope

Worry.
What is worry?
A cloud of fret?

Worry.
Worry never helps.
It will only bring you down.

So breathe;
In, and out.
Don't let it cloud you.

She will tell you:
Your fears are small.
Don't let an ant rule what you will become.

*~*

(A few days later...?)

~C~

  I sit beside my pea plants. Today is a slightly cloudy day. I don't understand how they can stand to live. The sun is a force to be reckoned with, yet it has mercy for its clouds. I wish to be a cloud.

  I look outside to see August and April doing what they always do. I am helping out as well. However I am on house-duty. I just watch out for anything, or anyone coming, and keep everything in check. Definitely a perfect job for me.

  In my hand, I hold a piece of paper. Truly, I don't know if this is paper either. After that night, which had felt so long ago, I am questioning everything. I had strongly remembered stars. Just looking up at the sky with another loved one. Now I am told I am delusional, and none of that was ever real.

  I have forgotten how to write. That is why I have this paper. I want to learn again. If I ever learned at all.

  All I can remember for the alphabet, is "C" and "H". Two simple letters. Two simple letters that cannot help me. I would go ask one of the two outside to help, but I don't want to bother them.

  Maybe I will try drawing. I can't write, but maybe I will express what I want to say through my words. I want to remember that nighttime sky. Even if I was told it was't real. I will bring it back.

  So, I start. In my other hand, I hold a small paintbrush. On the table beside the peas, there is a small bowl. This is full of black ink.

  I dip my brush in the ink. A swirl of black at my reach. I spend a moment just twirling my brush around and around. I like the way it reflects the sun, and other objects around it.

  I look into the puddle. I see me. I see my face. Staring right back at me, are green eyes. — Just like April's green eyes. Except less... harsh?

Yeah, harsh.

  'Focus,' I tell myself.

  I don't know how much time I have. So, I begin. Time is a weary thing. A being only gets so much. It can be easily wasted, and then what? Then what has that person become?

  I pick up the brush, and put it on the paper. It makes a pretty swirl. I remember those stars. I remember feeling so loved. How do I put that on a paper? Is this even a paper?

  I shake my head. 'Stop worrying.' I remind myself. Worrying never helps. Someone told me that once as well. Maybe it was August. Maybe it was someone else.

  I paint it in a dark color. I save small spots for the stars. Their light spills out across the page. It makes me smile. This is what I wanted, even if I don't know what I am doing.

  A small flower finds its way onto my page. Then that turns into two. Suddenly there is a cluster of little budding flowers reaching towards the sky. They know how to dream.

  Do I know how to dream? Well, I believe I know how to draw. At least from my frail attempts here. I know how to place my wandering thoughts onto my paper. — No, not thoughts. These are memories. They must have happened.

  August said that this was ridiculous. April said I could not even remember a thing. I remember that. I remember stars, and little flowers.

  'Those two things might be the most real subjects I will ever know,' I think to myself.

  I look up towards the sky. The stars are dead. They have long been dead. Flowers; I know flowers too. Maybe one day the flowers will die off as well. Solely because I remembered them.

I am not supposed to remember a thing.

  They remind me of someone. Someone dear. Someone who loved me. At least at one time. At some point, this person, or thing, did love me.

  Two colors. A vibrant red, and a pale, cool yellow. Both clashed against each other. Both collided, yet mixed together.

  How did these colors come from my black ink? I look to outside. Outside there are colors. However here, there are none. Perhaps I should think this as some small miracle.

  A miracle that allowed me to bring back that nighttime sky. With each of its little stars. With the serenity it held, and little flowers only learning to grow. In another life, I would believe myself to be a flower. Just like the ones that have sprawled from my memory to the paper.

  On one side, on a spiraling rose, I write the letter "C". Since that is what I am called, that is who I will be. On the other side, I write "H". "H" is on a vine. It leads up to the flower, with little leaves sprouting out from its side.

"I miss you," I whisper. I hope I am heard.