Short Story / I'll Forget a Lot of Things Before I Forget That Night
I’ll forget a lot of things before I forget that night.
No one died. No one abandoned me. I didn’t fall in or out of love. No one I knew was even there. And that one event, those few precious minutes that flashed by, did not concern me. I twisted my head to watch it pass. I watched it without permission, without invitation. Those seconds, ticking by, changed my life permanently.
The world is bleak. Its state is grim. Its future is unwritten. Humans prove, every day, they are capable of the most vile acts and crimes. Adultery, murder, genocide, greed, corruption of power, abuse, ignorance – it’s all for one and none for all. What’s the best for me? we think. Or even, What is the easiest way in, or out, or through? How can I get through life with the most success and the least amount of effort? No one seems to live, anymore, by the old (and my favorite) adage, “Nothing worth anything comes easily.”
My parents are dead. House fire. I live with my sister in a ratty apartment in New York City. She works at a magazine, Editor and Publisher. She swears she will not let me work after school unless our lives depend upon it. I repay her kindness by getting in the top ten of my high school class.
I wake up early every morning with a little spark of hope in my heart, searching for something to set it aflame. Living in New York is an opportunity in itself for anything to act as an extinguisher upon my feeble heart-spark.
Teenagers in my high school sail through and graduate by way of mediocrity.
A mother slaps her three-year old child on the street.
An old woman struggles to reel in her umbrella on a blustery day, battered from side to side by gusts and people.
A drunk driver hits and runs.
A dog lies frozen under a park bench.
It’s wretched. Sometimes I wonder why I bother. I’m not sure what I’m living for. I haven’t reconciled myself with life, but I haven’t reconciled myself with death, either. I’m in limbo, waiting for something to sway me to one side. I just need a side. I don’t care which.
I walk home from school one night after quiz team practice. I didn’t answer a single question. I know I failed a history test earlier. My calculus teacher commented on my sullen attitude. I had seen a man get evicted this morning.
It was early evening. The sky glows red in the direction I walk. I can feel pinpricks of starlight pierce the back of my gray wool coat. I turn the collar up against the ferocious New York City winter winds. My breath freezes against the wool and leaves it wet and warm against my cheek. When I look up, the waning moon bounces back and forth between the tops of the buildings.
Sullen attitude. I cross the street quickly. I’m always sullen to my teachers. Turn the corner. At least, according to them. I don’t see the point in being high-spirited when I’m not feeling it. It’s just as good as lying. My heels click on the pavement steadily. Turn another corner; wait for a green light to change; cross another street. My extracurriculars – quiz team, Student Council president, photography club, environment club, chess club, computer club – none of them make me contented. That’s what they’re supposed to do, right? Give you something extra fun to do at school outside of class. Why can’t I make myself happy? Click, click, click, click. A car’s horn sounds long and loud in the distance. It’s not like I’m a loner, either. If I have plenty of friends, why does it seem like I have none?
Tires squeal on asphalt and I turn the last corner. A gust of wind swirls around the corner before I can and throws me backward. I struggle through, head down, until I reach our building. Click, click… click… click. My heels slow, halt. The cloud of frozen air in front of my face disappears.
My sister sits, head bowed, on the front step. Her nicest gray business skirt is creased. She isn’t wearing a coat. Without looking up, she speaks. The wind seizes her words and throws them at my gut.
“I lost my job. They’re downsizing.”
Click, click. I continue walking. She doesn’t try to impede me. As I pass her, her breath catches and she chokes.
Clickclickclickclick. The tempo of my heels quickens. I clutch my bag closer and bury my face behind my coat collar. It flops down and I have to hold it against my wet cheek.
That’s what I’m talking about. Miserable, filthy life.
I find myself pacing in the direction of the East River.
I am tempted to run straight through a green light. I pause at the corner. I’ll save it for now.
I look around. Nice buildings. Fancy people. I jab at the button to change the light.
A man, his tall figure crumpled on the pavement opposite the street, rocks back and forth. There are holes in his shoes. He hasn’t shaved in weeks. Back and forth, back and forth he goes. The light changes and I sigh in relief. I click across the street toward the man.
As I approach, a door nearby opens. Warm, welcoming light streams out into the deepening darkness. Svelte – that’s the word that describes this woman, dressed in Gucci, who leaves the building. She stands before the man. Surprised, I stumble and hesitate.
“You’ve been doing that all day.” She adds a touch of question to her light, lilting tones.
“Yes.” The man looks up. Pale blue eyes pierce her face defiantly. Underneath the facial hair, his bone structure is fine, his nose aristocratic. This man was not born into poverty.
The woman opens her mouth, pauses, and smiles – a congenial smile that illuminates the night. The man raises one thin eyebrow.
“I wish you knocked.”
She takes his hand and helps him up – never mind the dirt falling on her blouse, the smudges he leaves on her willowy hands. She leads him indoors, still holding his hand, and he follows without resistance. I spot the look of appreciative amazement on his face.
And the door shuts.
That was all. Who does that?
People with hope. People that pass the hope on. People that keep my hopeful heart-spark burning brightly.
Thanks to that one unnamed woman, I have learned what happiness is. It is finding a hint of light in an everyday event and turning it into a blazing fire. It is a hug from someone who loves you. It is finding your passion through trial and error, and pursuing it with all of your spirit. It’s a warm puppy, too.
Those hopeful people are the happy people in the world. And I am one of them.
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The last two paragraphs are unnecessary. Don’t assume your reader won’t “get” what you are trying to convey—that’s what the story is for. By summing it up at the end, you do exactly that. As a reader, it is always a little irritating when a writer is tempted to dumb down the piece and state the morale outright. It lessens the impact you might have had. I think you should end it at “People that keep my hopeful heart-spark burning brightly.” The reader will get the rest on their own.
Overall, I enjoyed this story. I think you captured the desperate desire to believe in something more that people of hope carry with them at all times, but sometimes doubt. You also painted the scene very well and tapped into an emotion that many people can identify with throughout their lives.
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