It's always "That Day"

It's always going to be That Day.  There's no other way to describe it.  I'm never going to remember what I said, or what I ate for breakfast, or what I did.  I will just remember how it felt on my skin, what I heard, and what I saw.  There are no words to describe what happened.

I still think about That Day, sometimes.  Less often than I used to.  It's like when you talk to people about September 11.  They always remember the day when they didn't remember what happened for a whole day.  Not that they didn't remember, but that they didn't think about it.

I don't remember when I stopped thinking about it.  It has defined my very existance.  It has made me become what I am.

I remember the screaming.  The god-awful, ear-piercing, blood-curdling scream.  I remember seeing her, curled up on the floor, unable to recognise me, unable to hear my voice.

As much as I try, I can't block out the next bit.  I don't know if I really want to forget, or if I just want to ignore it for a little while.  It doesn't really matter, because I never forget.  And I shouldn't; it reminds me of what they have done, and of what I had to give up to be here.

She went limp, in my arms.  I thought she had died.  I thought that was the end.  But then, the red was on my dress, it was splattered across my face.  I could see everyone else watching the multi-coloured rain float down around them.

They kept dancing, but I, I was going to be carrying Isabelle for a long time.

(Part of the Shattered universe.)

A Montage of White.

White. It’s a colour that’s defined my entire life. The first image as a child, the earliest picture in my head is a white light. I’m told I would gaze at the sky for hours at a time, always coming back to the sun. As if I longed to be up there with the stars and the clouds and the emptiness.

When I was five, I started playing tennis. I cried for weeks whenever I looked at the television until my parents finally bought cable. I watched tennis constantly. I learnt how to use the TV recorder so I could tape the late night games and watch them after school the next day. And then I saw the Wimbleton and decided, yes, that’s it for me. I wore white until starting school where I had to wear an ugly green uniform.

I was ten when the tennis ball hit my head. All at once I stopped playing tennis and was knocked out. I remember seeing white. Not a blinding white, like when I was littler, but as if I were in a white room and it had no edges, no corners, nowhere for shadows.

At seventeen, I actually died. Just for a moment. It wasn’t tunnel, and it wasn’t a garden. I was standing in front of a white door. I just knew what it was. I was supposed to go through it. But I was seventeen; I couldn’t. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t want to go. Yet, my body moved without me. I could feel myself moving, my hand slipping through the air to the door. I was holding my breath, my eyes didn’t blink and then, right at the last moment, right when my hand was about to touch the door, I woke up. I thought I was dreaming I was a toddler again; white lights above my head and eyes. No, I was in the hospital.

I didn’t see white again for some time. But Anna. Anna was gorgeous, walking towards me in a white gown, on the white sand.

A headful of blonde ringlets.

A Cinderella dress-up party.

Another wedding, only I was walking the white-gowned girl down the aisle.

A white blanket covering the porcelain skin.

Anna’s hair. My hair.

Then the white door. This time, I took Anna’s hand. She smiled at me. And as I opened the door, bright white light fell out and surrounded us.