The Boy She Left Behind ✓

Announcement

Hey guys. Long time no see!

It's been a long time since I wrote this story, longer still in terms of my own personal development. At times I still can't believe how much love this story has received and continues to receive. I still believe that the emotions playing out here and the lives of the people are true and incredibly raw, but I've also come so far in mg writing journey and I've learned so much and I've gotten so much better that I can't help but look at TBSLB in a nostalgic but bitter sweet way. I've come far from the person who had sat down to write the story of Emma and Mathew. This is probably the reason why I haven't been able to re-write or edit this novella -- because every time I've tried, I've found myself so far away from that mental space that I think that I'll just change the whole story now if I attempt to rewrite it.

Fun fact though: I actually once did attempt to edit TBSLB. I got as far as chapter 4 and then realised how differently it was all coming all. And if this story is anything then it's the unabridged rawness of emotions that it has.

Two years later, as of now, I'm writing my last novella. At least for a while since now I plan on getting serious and taking mg ambitions to the next level.

So, for any and all interested parties who have found some form of emotional relation in this story, do check out my current story Stealing Moments. It has all the raw emotions, but it also has a helluva better characterisation and writing. It is the best, most personal, and most life changing piece of fiction that I've ever written.

Here's a little sneak peak into it's first chapter:

Chapter One

IRISA

Most people don't think about death at the sight of a swing. I do.

The metal chain shines when it reflects sunlight, the hinges creak from the weight of whoever is sitting on the swing, and both those things are awfully similar to what one would see and hear in a car crash. Most people don't know this because they haven't experienced an incident like that, but I have, and so I do.

"Irisa?"

"Hmm," I mumble in response. My gaze shifts from the swing outside of my school counsellor's room and snaps up to meet the four-eyed stare of Dr. Zia. She shifts her glasses up the bridge of her nose and I shift in my seat on the sofa.

"What are you thinking about?" she asks, crossing her legs as she leans back into the chair and looks at me like you would look at a baby bird who has fallen from its nest.

I suppose I did fall from my nest.

"Nothing," I say. Though that's a lie and she knows it. I'm thinking about death and pain and why me and how do I choose between being mad at my parents and mourning them. But we've already talked about most of these many times before so I don't see the point in delving back into that gaping black hole. Just thinking about it makes my skin itch, makes me want to reach my hand out and grab the pen from the green holder sitting on the desk. Makes me want to draw where I can't...

No, I remind myself. Don't go there. Not again.

Dr. Zia puts down the notepad she's holding and leans forward, hands intertwined, resting atop her thighs. "Okay, let's talk about something else. How is your sister? Are you getting along well with your grandmother?"

"Mhm, they're okay," I say. "Asteria really likes her new school. She has made friends there. Last week she joined this writing club and they gave her an assignment to write about her favourite book and its movie adaptation." I recall Ria ranting to me all Saturday afternoon about how she liked the book ending of A Monster Calls better than the movie's, about the similarities between the two, about how she'd cried so much in both of them. "She handed in the paper yesterday actually."

"You're happy for her," Dr. Zia says matter-of-factly.

A small smile finds its way onto my lips because, yes, I'm happy for her. I'm proud of her.

She's the only family I have left.

"You know," Dr. Zia starts to say and I look up at her, realising that I've been staring at my wrist all this time, at the wreath tattoo, at the jagged skin hidden underneath the ink, and that she has been staring at me. I rub my nose and then fold my arms around my waist loosely, tucking away my right hand. Out of sight, out of mind, right?

She clears her throat. "What I want to say is that you deserve to be happy, too, Irisa." Brown eyes bore into mine, intense and all too real. "You do," she insists.

"I hope so," I say. Habitually I raise my hand to run it through my hair, comb out the tangles and feel the strand-like texture resting between my fingertips, only for my fingers to fly past the jagged, short wisps ending just past my chin. The smile falls from my lips and once again I tuck my hands underneath my arms. Out of sight, out of mind? Yeah... not so much.

A few minutes later the big hand of the cream coloured clock on the left-side wall strikes the hour and I know our time is up. Picking up my bag from beside the sofa, I hike up the strap over my shoulder and nod at Dr. Zia. "See you next week."

I'm almost out the door when she calls out to me and I stop short, hand on the doorknob.

I hear the tap of her heels as she stands up and walks over to the side table, the soft ruffle of paper as she sifts through a stack and picks one out, and then feel her hand touching my shoulder.

"Irisa," she says.

I sigh and turn around, slowly lifting my eyes up to meet her gaze.

"You deserve to be happy and you also deserve to be free. I know you feel like you have to be your sister's rock, but you need to have someone you can rely on as well. A friend." She smiles at me, thin lips painted a muted shade of pink stretching over brown skin. She holds out the form. "Here. The yellows and blues society has had a really spectacular rep sheet, if I do say so myself. It has helped many children like you bond with other people. In fact, many kids have found their best friends this way."

When I open my mouth, the words no, thank you right there at the tip of my tongue, plus a whole speech about how I really am better off alone, how it's easier to just try and breathe instead of wasting my breath on trying to become someone's friend, she cuts me short.

"Just think about it," she says. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to, but just think about it."

Swallowing a lungful of air, I reluctantly nod my head. "Okay."

I accept the form from her hand, causing Dr. Zia to smile in a manner that is relieved and proud and comforting and every other sentiment from the spectrum in between. My own lips tug up at the corners to mirror hers.

"And don't forget your exercise!" she reminds me as I'm stepping out of her office. "You have to try and list down the things which trigger your nightmares and flashbacks so that we can work on eliminating them."

Later in the day, back at grandma's place, I sit in my room, scratching away on a piece of paper. My homework sits abandoned on the corner of the desk that I brought from our old house, my house, as I try and work out the list of triggers. Modern History replaced with all the things that have started to make my skin crawl. It's funny how things that were mundane once, situations and every day occurrences, have the ability to take on a completely new meaning, a sinister meaning, when paired with a certain bad experience.

Back when we'd first started my therapy, Dr. Zia had told me all about how the mind associates different bits of information together. How a single experience can change everything preceding and following its existence. A schema, she'd called it.

It's funny how it's not funny at all that the sound of a fork clattering to the floor makes me freeze, makes my breath hitch and eyes burn.

~~~~~~~~~

Interested? I sure hope so. Say yes even if you're not, just to keep my heart.

Please do check out my baby. I've come far enough down this road to be able to say that I'm actually proud of this one.

Take care guys.. Every single one of you readers mean a lott to me. You all mean a lot. Thanks for existing.

Love,
Zainab.