"Other Side" short short story
giventofly86
Posts: 19
A while back I posted a short story inspired by Yellow Ledbetter. This one's inspired by Other Side, trying to capture not only the poetic beauty of the lyrics but the emotion of the song. Isn't it amazing how music can inspire you?
Other Side
by Usman Ijaz
I stand behind her and watch her as she fights to hold on. I know how she feels, and I can hear her whispered prayers. I can hear her sobs. This is her when she is alone, when she lowers her walls and admits her sorrow to herself. The world outside cannot penetrate the walls of this room, it cannot distil the memories stored within. For now there is just the two of us.
I reach out and place my hand on her shoulder.
“It will be alright,” I tell her.
“I can’t...” she whispers. She sniffs and wipes at her eyes. She raises her head and looks around at the room, the gold-yellow walls, the paintings that adorn them.... This is how things used to be, and how they still remain. She refuses to let go. As she always does, she looks at the picture on the nightstand. I remember when that picture was taken, the three of us on a picnic, sitting beneath a beautiful clear sky. Us and our son. And as she always does when she looks at the picture she breaks down again, her fear and sorrow washing over her again like a tide.
“You have to let go, sweetheart. You need to move on.”
She nods to herself, as though ready to try and face the world outside again. I can feel her trying to rebuild her walls again, brick by brick, held together not by cement but will alone.
“We can’t go on like this,” I tell her.
My words fall on deaf ears though. I know she is steeling herself to face the world outside. Just when I turn to leave, she says, “I had that dream again.”
I stop and look at her, but she still faces away from me.
“We were all together,” she says. “We were playing at the picnic, tossing a ball with John ... and then the sky turned black and it started to rain. I woke up feeling cold.”
I know that she often wakes up late in the night, cold and shivering and disoriented. When the truth of her reality hits her, she cries herself back to sleep, her tears still warm on her cheeks.
“I want things to go back to the way they were. I can’t let go,” she admits suddenly.
“But you have to. There’s nothing we can do.”
“I wish you were here.”
“I wish I could be there too, sweetheart.” It pains me to see her so alone. “But you can’t hold on to the weight you bear. He still needs you.”
“I’m not the same without you here,” she whispers.
I am unsurprised to feel tears running down my own cheeks. “It’s not easy for me either, sweetheart. You can’t know what it’s like to be here, so close and so far away. We can’t go on like this. You have to let me go. Accept it and live out the rest of your days, before this blackened road of life goes white.”
She looks at the picture again. “I wish you were here. All I can do is just sit here and stare ... begging for a prayer. He misses you so much.”
I take two steps towards her and touch her shoulder. If she feels my touch, she shows no sign of it. “I’ll be here, waiting for you.”
She wipes at her eyes. I bend down and kiss the top of her head. For the last time.
“Goodbye, sweetheart.”
Other Side
by Usman Ijaz
I stand behind her and watch her as she fights to hold on. I know how she feels, and I can hear her whispered prayers. I can hear her sobs. This is her when she is alone, when she lowers her walls and admits her sorrow to herself. The world outside cannot penetrate the walls of this room, it cannot distil the memories stored within. For now there is just the two of us.
I reach out and place my hand on her shoulder.
“It will be alright,” I tell her.
“I can’t...” she whispers. She sniffs and wipes at her eyes. She raises her head and looks around at the room, the gold-yellow walls, the paintings that adorn them.... This is how things used to be, and how they still remain. She refuses to let go. As she always does, she looks at the picture on the nightstand. I remember when that picture was taken, the three of us on a picnic, sitting beneath a beautiful clear sky. Us and our son. And as she always does when she looks at the picture she breaks down again, her fear and sorrow washing over her again like a tide.
“You have to let go, sweetheart. You need to move on.”
She nods to herself, as though ready to try and face the world outside again. I can feel her trying to rebuild her walls again, brick by brick, held together not by cement but will alone.
“We can’t go on like this,” I tell her.
My words fall on deaf ears though. I know she is steeling herself to face the world outside. Just when I turn to leave, she says, “I had that dream again.”
I stop and look at her, but she still faces away from me.
“We were all together,” she says. “We were playing at the picnic, tossing a ball with John ... and then the sky turned black and it started to rain. I woke up feeling cold.”
I know that she often wakes up late in the night, cold and shivering and disoriented. When the truth of her reality hits her, she cries herself back to sleep, her tears still warm on her cheeks.
“I want things to go back to the way they were. I can’t let go,” she admits suddenly.
“But you have to. There’s nothing we can do.”
“I wish you were here.”
“I wish I could be there too, sweetheart.” It pains me to see her so alone. “But you can’t hold on to the weight you bear. He still needs you.”
“I’m not the same without you here,” she whispers.
I am unsurprised to feel tears running down my own cheeks. “It’s not easy for me either, sweetheart. You can’t know what it’s like to be here, so close and so far away. We can’t go on like this. You have to let me go. Accept it and live out the rest of your days, before this blackened road of life goes white.”
She looks at the picture again. “I wish you were here. All I can do is just sit here and stare ... begging for a prayer. He misses you so much.”
I take two steps towards her and touch her shoulder. If she feels my touch, she shows no sign of it. “I’ll be here, waiting for you.”
She wipes at her eyes. I bend down and kiss the top of her head. For the last time.
“Goodbye, sweetheart.”
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Begin to live while you still can.'
While we have the gift of life, it seems to me the only tragedy is to allow part of us to die - whether it is our spirit, our creativity or our glorious uniqueness.-Gilda Radner