Mid Term Break

I’ve never been to a funeral before. Another thing to add to my list of Firsts. Sitting in the village church surrounded by black suits and wilting white flowers I am almost overwhelmed by the powerful aura of grief. The past few days’ events replay in my mind like a twisted video tape….

Whirr, rewind, back to when the office secretary calls me out of class and sent me to the sick bay. Fast forward past all those hours, lying on the crisp sheets and staring at the ceiling. Fast forward past the 2-hour-long drive home in the Jones’s battered Ford, during which they tell me what happened. Stop. Play.

*The Ford drive noiselessly into the gravel driveway. I survey my home. Same screen doors, same wooden windows, same front lawn. But below these familiar sights lie a distinguishable air of foreboding. As I alight from the car, I notice Dad and Big Jim sitting on the steps of the porch. Dad looks up at me and with a jolt I see his eyes are swollen and bloodshot from crying. I shudder inwardly. Dad never cries. I edge past him without a word.

I close the screen doors quietly, trying desperately to go upstairs without anyone noticing. Too late. The village heads sitting in the living room spot me and rise to shake my hand. Feeling slightly embarrassed, I excuse myself and go into the kitchen. The murmurs I’m not meant to hear fill my ears and I slam the kitchen screen shut in annoyance.

Baby Pam croons and gurgles in her crib, oblivious to the sorrow around her. She’s simply delighted to see me for the first time in six weeks. I stroke her chubby fingers. With a stab I think, she will never know her brother.

Mum pushes open the screen doors. Her sleek, raven hair is pulled back into a bun. The stray strands line her slender face and her eyes are dull and listless, betraying her anguish. Silently, we hug. Grief is understood without words.

An ambulance slows to a halt just outside our house, its siren respectfully silent. The medics bear a long box which Dad tells them to bring upstairs. Once they’re gone, I slip upstairs. I hesitate a little outside the door but quickly recover and enter the room.

Jim’s room is just as it always was. The bookshelf with children’s classics, the mahogany chest of drawers, the model airplanes hanging from the ceiling. He’s lying in the box atop the quilted bed, as I’d seen him done so many times when I’d check to make sure he was asleep. Only stiller and more silent, no steady breaths or gentle murmurs.

I settle down beside him. Stroking his golden locks, I think back to all the times I’ve seen the same golden locks shimmering in the summer sun. All the times I’d seen the same face filled with laughter. Not today.

Choking back tears, I push back his fringe and spy the poppy-bruise on his left temple. Almost immediately I feel sorry for the way I’d ignored Dad previously. Poor Dad. It really wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t have seen little Jim playing in the driveway as he reversed the family Jeep. At least Jim had a quick clean death.

Never again will I be able to watch Jim playing in the yard, trying to catch butterflies in his plump palms. Never again will I hear his endearing laugh. Never again will I see his toothy grin. I didn’t even get to say goodbye. I lay my head on his pillow and cry. *

“Let us rise…” I am snapped back to reality by the pastor’s monotonous voice. Now we’re supposed to file past Jim and each place a single white lily on his coffin. When it’s my turn I bend down and place my lily atop his pale, clasped hands. For the last time, I stare at his chubby face. He could be sleeping. I turn around and walk back down the aisle.

Goodbye Jim. Perhaps we’ll meet again someday.

*heehee hope you enjoyed it. Rachel thought it was ok. comments please?*

Anti Drug Essay

(i realise this blog is half dead, so i'd like to share my anti-drug essay with all of you. maybe later i'll put my Mid Term Break up too =D)

The consequences of drug abuse were more serious than she thought. Her moment of folly cost her the most precious thing of all…her life…

Sara and I were inseparable friends and model students. Popular with our classmates, well-liked by teachers, we excelled academically. We were also short distance sprinters who frequently represented the school in competitions. Straight A students and track stars, we had it all.

However, all this changed when we entered Secondary 2. With the secondary 3 module selection looming ahead, our teachers urged us to study hard. Being top students, Sara and I faced an exceptional amount of pressure to excel in our studies. Sensitive and vulnerable, Sara began to crumble under the pressure. Many a time, she would doze off in class or skip training on the grounds of being too tired.

At first, I thought little of her strange behaviour. After all, we were all stressed out, weren’t we? But Sara’s condition continued to deteriorate. Soon, her svelte frame became skeletal and her gaunt cheek bones began to strain against her sallow skin. I knew something was amiss.

I decided to visit Sara in her sprawling bungalow. Upon arrival, I was directed to her bedroom by Sara’s maid. At the top of the winding marble staircase, I pushed open the bedroom door. I was appalled by the sight that greeted my eyes.

Sprawled on the bed was Sara. In her bony hands was a brown paper bag which emitted noxious fumes. Sara was taking a long drag from the bag.

“Sara! What’s that? Give it here!” I made a grab for the bag but Sara whisked it from reach just as my fingertips brushed the damp brown paper. Thrown off balance, my feet stumbled over a lump of patchwork quilt. A rather solid lump of quilt. I flung back the fabric, revealing tins of glue.

The truth hit me like a slap in the face. The reason behind Sara’s weight loss, her fatigue, her listlessness….glue sniffing! “SARA! How could you do this?! After all the anti-drug campaigns we’ve been through ?” Sara glared defiantly. Taking another drag, she closed her bloodshot eyes, her brows furrowing in suppressed rage. “Shut up Elaine! You don’t understand anything!” “What’s to understand? You’re ruining your future!” Sara had had enough. Hurling a pillow at me with surprising strength, she snarled, “Get out! Get out! Don’t ever speak to me again! And don’t you DARE breathe a word of this to ANYONE!” I raced out, tears blurring my vision.

Sara was absent from school the next day. And the next. And the next. Our classmates tried to contact her but to no avail. After a week, a somber principal relayed the distressing news to our class. Sara was dead from an inhalant overdose. Her close friends and team mates were requested to be present at her funeral.

At the funeral, surrounded by Sara’s mourners, I feel an unsurpassable grief. Sara was just another victim to drug abuse. Staring at her pale, emaciated body lying amidst the white chrysanthemums, i am struck by the fact that Sara is only one of many who succumbed to drug abuse. I wipe my eyes. Sara's passing will not go in vain. i will make sure that her death will serve as a warning to other teens against the evils of drug abuse.

By sharing Sara's story, i hope i have done that.