Grief

Prose Fiction

Hermione Tiger Galloway-Fenwick

212 Barnardo Avenue

K9H 5V7

hermionetiger@icloud.com

(705) 749-3331

Grade 10

Thomas A. Stewart Secondary School

Carolyn Best
 The man wipes his hand across the water. Tiny ripples erupt from the surface, distorting

the image as it fades. Slowly he rises, and turns from the pool, trying not to think about it. Water

laps at his ankles as he slowly makes his way out of the grotto. But he cannot get the image of

that little girl out of his head. That poor little girl. There is so much she might have done, he

thinks. So much she could have accomplished, so much potential. He sighs, running his hand

over his face. Sometimes he wonders why he’s still doing this. He thinks about another life. One

where he leaves, one where he never comes back. One where he settles down, finds a wife;

maybe he’d have children, grandchildren, great grandchildren. One where he’s happy. But that

can never be. He knows it. And besides, he is too old to have children, too scared to marry, and

he has seen far too much to ever be happy. He tries not to dwell on it. Better to not think of what

you cannot have. He walks slowly, methodically, his thoughts now consumed by that little girl.

She was smiling, and laughing. She was happy. The man begins to feel something he has not felt

in a long time, sadness, regret, anger. All those people, all those lives, all those smiles, gone.

Forever. A tear streams down his face, it’s been so long he forgot how it felt. He grits his teeth

and balls his fists. His footsteps grow quicker and forceful. He wonders why him? Why must he

do this, why can’t someone else do it? Why must it be done at all? He has arrived. The house is

small, and pleasant. It’s painted a cheery white and looks out across the sea. He doesn't want to

go in. The man steps through the door. Her mother is on the couch; she looks worried. The man

passes by, unseen. He doesn't want to find the girl. He does. She’s in her bedroom, sitting at her

desk. As the man approaches, she begins to cough. She’s sick, of course. She doesn’t see him, he

reaches out, his hand brushes against her shoulder and she stops. She turns to look at him,

recognition and grief in her eyes.

 “But,” she mutters “I wasn’t done yet.” The man simply shakes his head and offers her

his hand. The girl's mother rushes into the room, she sees the girl slumped over at her desk;

blood is still dripping from her mouth. The mother begins to cry. The girl looks at the man, tears

welling up in her eyes as well. “It isn't fair.” There is anger in her voice, but acceptance in her

eyes. She glances one more time at her mother, and takes his hand. She’s gone. The man leaves.

He walks quickly away, he’s not entirely sure why. Something in the way that girl looked at him.

He hears a splash. He looks down at a puddle, and sees a young man staring back. He’s in a

hospital bed. His whole family is gathered around crying. His young son cradled in his wife’s

arms. The man sinks to the earth staring into the puddle as his tears slowly shatter the image. It

has all become too much. Why must everything end? That poor girl, this poor family, the poor

world. Why must it all end? Centuries of grief come crashing down on him as seemingly endless

tears stream down his face. Then he stops. He looks out across the water. The sun is setting and

both the sea and sky are ablaze with pink light. It’s beautiful. The man shuts his eyes, he feels the

sea breeze wash across his face and as the light fades, so too does his sadness. He is old, he is

tired, and he has a job to do. He looks out to the sea one last time then turns and walks,

disappearing into the night. There is so much work yet to be done.