Mysteriousness

Mysteriousness.
February 2000.

Under the dying willow tree, surrounded by browning daffodils, laid the small, shivering boy, fragile as a butterfly in winter. His dark clothes and damp, matted hair did not lessen the shocking beauty of his hollow, tear stained face. The sad, long sobs were drowned by the intruding sound of the turbulent midnight river and his whiter than pale skin seemed luminescent as the moon reflected off the bullet like drops of rain. I have not seen a boy so unhappy and disheveled look so strangely attractive in my life.

He gazed up at my muddy shadow with his glassy, swollen green eyes and a guarded expression, similar to that of a cat’s caught in the headlights of a car. That was all that flawed his otherwise perfect features. He stopped and stared, and I felt as if those eyes could penetrate right through me. The absolute, over powering magnetism of his vulnerable stare, drawing me closer to where he now lay, curled up and convulsing in the harsh surroundings. A million thoughts passed through my mind as I was both in awe and in pity of him. My mouth froze wide open.

This boy did not look quite human, as if his beauty and sheer existence after the horrific ordeal seemed somewhat impossible. I couldn’t quite comprehend the scene I had just witnessed. This boy is amazing. As much as I felt compelled to be near him and wanted to somehow help, I felt a stab of fear that made this all not real. Only, it was too damn real, and I didn’t know what to do.

I had seen it happening from across the river. The little angelic girl, crying out in the rain, then suddenly slipping from the small boy’s arms, rolling down and down the riverbank with a large splash into the swirling water. I heard him scream and watched the boy slide in after her, flailing about the river, grabbing hopelessly for the little girl who could not walk, let alone swim. I watched, stuck to the ground in dismay until I could no longer see either of them. I almost jumped in there and then, before crossing the bridge to where I last saw them both.

I crawled recklessly, almost falling in myself, down the bank and called for them. Feeling round the depths of water near my feet. I was beginning to sink into the mud, which ran like it’s own river down the banks in big chunks. Then, a hand grabbed my ankle with such strength I stumbled forwards, almost losing my footing in the sticky mass beneath my feet. That was when I saw him. He appeared from the blackness like the first star on a clear night. I hauled both of us upwards to the shelter of the bare, old tree. I cannot explain it. I mean, it was as if he were glowing with some kind of aura, protecting him; forcing him to be strong and carry on. He said five, barely audible words… “It should have been me,” and sat, staring at me with those deep, mysterious eyes.

His face is something I will never forget. A face so young, carrying all the woes of the world and eyes reaching to the very depths of his white soul. There was such pleading, such sorrow of the loss of someone so young and innocent, but too damn wise. His face will never be the same again after the death of his sister which eats away at his otherwise pure being, where the ugly scar of guilt and regret complete the loneliness he feels, stealing away the person he once was.

I fell to the sloppy ground with him and cried inconsolably for the boy and the absent girl who can both never be the way they were before the accident. “I should’ve done more to help,” I whisper. And I think of him now in my dreams where I try to save him from losing his sister and heal his pain. But every time I am too late, always too late. And every time, the reaper takes his prize, out doing all that is good in this godforsaken place. “It should have been me.”