Friday 15 July 2011

Flash Fiction 2011 Third Prize, Natasha Puri

The Boy Who Lived

"There was a death that day, wasn't there?"

She asked. Who had died that night? Did I die alone? Did I suffer alone? It's a funny kind of feeling, the pain. The irony: sharing the hurt with the one who hurt you. While one lives, the other is merely in exile, for they can't exist together. And yet, as queer as it may sound, they become companions in pain. No one chose to, the suffering came to them both. As guilt, to one, and as pain to the other.

"Must I share this with you?" she asked. "Anything, if it makes it go away, my dear." and he shed a little tear for her. Was that salt water the medicine to her wound?
My mind is yours, my love. The thoughts, you've taken them with you. It runs through the meadow, while I lay here, hoping, and wanting.

A moment's folly? Or was it an intentional crime?

It left me wounded, my love. And my heart still lies with you. In the wilderness, where you buried it.

Somebody did die that night.

While my thoughts still wander in the meadows, and with lips that can taste your tears, I yearn. To say goodbye. To the boy, that died.

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