Crushed Heart

Crushed Heart

A Story by Julia

Sasha skipped in a circle on the grey pavement, waiting. The end was near, she knew. The rain would come and wash away the drawing she had made on the ground in chalk. It was a picture of her and her father. She had to improvise, of course, because the only colors she had were green, purple and blue. But there they were, holding hands and smiling. They were probably on their way to a picnic in the park like they used to have, just the two of them. They would bring turkey sandwiches and rice pudding and apple juice and sit with the sharp blades of grass prying their behinds and the sun sparkling down on them, drowning them in golden light. The last picnic they had, by the water, she remembered her father laughing, shiny bubbles of joy floating out of his mouth and landing on her open palm like little pearls. She remembered watching the way the water lapped up against the concrete, like a playful dog. She remembered feeling anxious, as she spent lazy hours resting her head in her father’s lap, watching the moon emerge from behind its veil, counting the number of ants marching around the perimeter of a tree, crossing her fingers for a shooting star to grant the wish she held close with a fiery might. The wish that things would stay this way forever, the wish that her nerves would fade to black, that she could forget it wouldn’t always be this way. She remembered when her father had faced her so they were eye to eye. His smile faded softly, like a pair of old jeans, so that you didn’t realize it was happening until it was too late. He turned to her and showed her two closed palms. She was lucky she tapped the right hand, her silky coffee warmth against his, her fingerprint against his skin invisibly connecting them. He opened it and handed her a necklace. She gasped and pried it from his slow fingers, excitement making her move too fast. It was a gold chain and at the end hung a locket. There was something engraved on the side, which she first ran over with her finger, feeling the cool smooth edges of metal, and then read. It had her name and the inside had her father’s picture and the word love. And she did love it. She loved the way it felt when she hung it from her neck. She loved the feeling it sent down her spine, like little angelic fairies dancing with glee. She loved cradling it between her shirt and chest and knowing that she was loved. At first it was different having something hang there that hadn’t been there before, but soon it felt like something was missing without it. She wore it to school, to bed, in the shower, on the playground. Her father would kiss her goodnight and smile but warn her to be careful. She looked up at the sky now, turning dark so that noon looked more like midnight, a deep reminder of things she would rather forget. Now that the picnics were over and her father was gone, now that there were no more lazy sunny days, or soft comforting embraces, her neck hung empty. The necklace that she had held against the beating of her heart was crushed in the pocket of her dress, a deep dark secret that choked her with regret and loss when she couldn’t help but reach her hand in. She would gently feel the tattered pieces and cry over something that could never be fixed. She skipped and listened with a trained ear, for the smell of clean laundry, of hot chocolate, of abandoned libraries that meant the rain was near. When it came, she stood still and let it wash her conscious clean, let it rid the evil off her back and free her yearning soul. Once her father’s face was gone, he was never coming back.


© 2010 Julia

Author's Note

i can't decide if this is complete feels like it needs more but I'm not sure what

My Review

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I would say it needs more. It has me completely curious as to what happened to the father and why. Just a thought! Great story.

Posted 13 Years Ago

WEll send me a msg if u add more! IT'S A GOOD LITTLE STORY! U HAVE A GREAT WAY WITH WORDS! :)

Posted 13 Years Ago

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2 Reviews
Added on August 9, 2010
Last Updated on August 9, 2010



New York, NY

Closet writer. Young. Cynical. Intelligent. Blunt. more..

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