Skip to main content

An amateaurish short story.

Shelly Belly

Those Bells. It was always those bells that made me think of her and of those times when we were free. Free to be whatever we wanted to be. It was GREEN and it had a wonderful tinkling sound. Reminiscent of the sound of Christmas and toy trains.

We were four when we became friends. I was playing in the yard of our preschool. The big boys were bullying me. I had the fanciest shovels, you see. She was always the strong, protective one. She saved me then and countless times after that. Always put me first. More like a big sister than a best friend.

Shelly saved me a seat in the cafeteria in middle school, fought with other kids over my seat in the bus. So brave and so good-hearted she was.

Yes, WAS. My Shelly is no more. We were in high school when she WENT. No, she didn’t leave the country, she didn’t leave me. She could never leave me. We were inseparable, the two of us.

She was there when my parents died. She was there when I couldn’t understand the big words in school. And then quite suddenly, in the midst of our high school prom preparations, Shelly started suffering; slowly and silently. It began with the fainting, then her absence in school. I wouldn’t see her for days and whenever I would try to contact her she would be unavailable.

One day I rode on my bicycle which she taught me to ride, to her house. Her mother opened the door slightly ajar. She looked positively distraught. She didn’t have to say anything. I could see the pain in her appearance. I ran inside towards Shelly’s room. And there she was, my brave Shelly.

Shelly became so weak, so sad and so different. I couldn’t bear it. Watching her fall apart was like looking at a part of me being shred to pieces. I couldn’t bear to see her so fragile.

For eighteen months she struggled. She was barely alive. She passed away on Christmas night. After we opened our gifts, after she gave me those priceless green dumbbells. I could feel it that night, a part of me withering, dying.

And before she passed, she looked at me. I saw her round pale face, those bright violet eyes; those knowing eyes, that same warmth even in death. And in that one look I knew, she being my biggest strength would never leave me.

Those bells, it was always those bells that made me remember Shelly. My sweet, strong, brave Shelly.

Labels:

Comments

  1. Taneesha26 June 2009 at 21:29

    nice story :) :) Micheal Jackson ;(

    ReplyDelete
  2. Harsheee26 June 2009 at 21:45

    so cute :) my brave shelly :) i actually know someone called shelly!!

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

New Quotes

For people who believe strongly in the illusiveness of life, to doubt would be more correct than to bear full conviction about anything at all. But then again that questions their primary belief in illusions. - Aditi A world without faith in a higher power or a god is a better world where we can be responsible for our own actions; where we can be kind to one another because we want to and because it is the right thing to do instead of being frightened into behaving by the threat of divine punishment. Many events may have defied your ability to explain, events that seem like miracles, but if you are convinced that you failed to understand them because you're still woefully ignorant about the universe and the learning will never stop, then, you cannot and will not believe that a deity altered the workings of nature. Don't ignore reality in order to comfort yourself, for once you do, you make it easy for others to deceive you. Understanding breeds empathy. We do not writ...
46 comments
Read more

ChAI

I used AI to make my chai this morning.   Why? Because I wanted to see if I’d still get that dopamine hit from something I didn’t even make.   I wanted to know if, by outsourcing an experience whose only purpose was my own consumption, it would take away from it.   By removing the act of boiling water, steeping tea—by only keeping the intent to make it—would I still feel the satisfaction when I took the first sip?   I read somewhere that you should aim to do hard things. That when you push yourself, when you fight resistance, and break through the boundaries of what you thought you could do, the dopamine hit is bigger.   But what happens when everything can be done by AI?   What happens when AI whispers, "I got you," and we stop doing anything at all?   The dopamine hit then wouldn’t come from the effort, but from the discovery that AI can do more, so we do less.   But here’s the catch—AI will do more, and w...
Post a Comment
Read more

Kept / Wept / Slept

For a while now, I've been wearing house slippers that are way too big for me. Firsthand experiencing the dangers of seeking (and knowing) too much, and finding out, rudely, unceremoniously, curiosity can kill more than just the cat. While exciting to taste the fruity slurps of seemingly full-knowledge, the satisfying crunch of acknowledgement, like punching holes through a thick stack of warm copy paper, the thrill of cliff jumps can culminate into bum-first crashing into the deceptive deep. Nobody warns you. That the water is always shallower; swallowing life too fragile to keep. No one explains that the depth is a trick. That the more that you dig, the less it will stick. Hunger loud from the tum; buns left in the breadbasket: none. And thread count of those slightly expensive sheets? No reliable guarantee of sleep. Long story short, if worry is the thief of joy; self awareness is the enemy of miracles. And so the slippers go into that unopened shoe cupboard, unused, where their...
1 comment
Read more