S H O RT S TO R I E S F R O M T H E G LO B A L C LA S S R O O M |
2014
As he neared the edge of the woods, the trees began to thin and the ground began to even. In the distance he could
just make out the crumbling silhouettes of the gravestones. Row upon row stood solidly, unmoving, between the
shadows. Stepping over the threshold he let out a sigh.
I’ve never really liked gravestones. Pieces of rock that are meant to represent a life. They are meant to be proof that
someone existed even when they are long forgotten. A little piece of them left on earth. But they will crumble and
break and your existence will wither away. I don’t mind if I am forgotten as so many others have been. Some say that
the fewer ties you have to this life, the easier it will be to move onto the next. All I can hope for now is a
swift transition.
As he walked through the maze of rock, the starlight beamed down, illuminating each stone. Some were so
weathered that they were all but collapsed, others so smooth and polished that you could see the glassy reflection
of the moon as you walked past. All had names. Names of mothers, fathers, children, siblings; friends mourned for,
strangers forgotten. Though flowers withered next to a few, most only hosted weeds.
Dying isn’t just about ceasing to exist; it’s about the people you leave behind. I will leave behind only my parents. In
a way I am comforted by the fact that they will be better off without me. They will feel upset, guilty, but at least they
won’t have to live with the pain that I see in their eyes every time they look at me, the pain of having an ‘odd’ child.
My parents have always been strong – well, at least appeared to be – but I’ve heard them late at night talking to each
other: ‘Where did we go wrong?’ ‘How will we get through this?’ When I first told them that I knew when I was
going to die, they passed it off as nonsense; who wouldn’t? I was only three. As I grew older, they grew more worried.
I never told them the day of my death, just that I would die at ten – it was the truth. They started with doctors, then
psychologists and eventually specialists. They all asked me the same questions and I always told them the same
thing: I will die at the age of ten; I don’t know how I know this; it is inevitable; there is nothing you can do about it.
Eventually they just gave up.
The church sat cradled between a large oak and the graveyard. On its left stood a small bell tower, ivy climbing
almost to the top. Gruesome gargoyles seemed to hover above, teeth bared in warning. It overlooked a dainty little
lawn that was half dark where the large silhouette of the building blocked out the sky. Daisies and dandelions bent
over as if sleeping. He stood there, gazing at building.
There’s something beautiful about the way –
Something was there. He could see a shadow coming round the edge of the building. It was long and thin. Suddenly
he felt small. Vulnerable. Sweat was collecting on the back of his neck. His heart was beating so loud he was scared
the shadow would hear it.
I’m scared. I’m scared of the shadow.
He backed up. It was coming towards him now. He couldn’t make out what it was, because of the darkness. He felt
something hit his back and realized he had walked into the tree.
I don’t know what it is. Is it here to take me, to hurt me? Where’s my mummy? Where’s my daddy?
He struggled to hold back sobs as he made his way round the tree. He crouched down and curled himself into a ball.
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