First psychological flash fiction that needs feedback
Writing in public the first time. I would appreciate some feedback whether positive or negative so I don't fumble the ball.
Story:
For as long as I could remember, stones would appear in my pocket. My mother discovered a small pebble in the pocket of my overalls when someone pushed me off the swing in kindergarten. When I stood at the corner of the stage crying because I'd lost my first inter-school debate, a rugged cobble fell from my coat pocket as I reached for a tissue. And when my boyfriend of two years broke up with me, I felt a giant weight on my leg as I collapsed onto my bed to wrap myself in blankets.
At this point in my life, the weight of the stone in my pocket felt like a boulder as I stood outside the hospital ward debating whether to join my family members in saying their goodbyes. When the last of them had trickled out, I walked in, catching a glimpse of the now more weary woman on the bed. I shuffled closer as she tried her best to look at me. Her auburn hair, which the wind blew wildly across her face when she took me on my first adult camping trip, was now gone, replaced with patches of dry skin on her scalp. Her eyes were no longer the vibrant brown they had been when she excitedly played house with me; the small smile she tried to give me did not match the infectious laugh she had while we scuffed fast food in the parking lot before she dropped me home after school. Her face was more wrinkled now, and she smelt faintly of bitter chemicals. Sitting on the stool next to her, I truly realised that my aunt, who took care of me and taught me how to grow up, would be with me anymore. In fact, she could barely even see me now.
I tried to stifle my sobs as I sat close to her, slowly whispering everything and anything I could tell her in that moment. After a few minutes, our closest family stepped back in, and I thanked them in my heart for agreeing to my request to see her alone. We stayed by her side as she drifted away, accompanying her as she mumbled her last words. I tried to reach out my hand to clasp hers one more time but almost could not make it because the weight in my pocket kept dragging my hand down.
...
Eunice Foster. Sister. Daughter. Friend. Loved by all she came across.
...
It had been a few days, and instead of staying at the family house as they discussed the after-funeral preparations, I resolved to go to the only lake our small town had to finally make a decision. Putting on the same brown coat and loafers from the day she died, I stood on the bank of the lake and looked out. I might have looked odd leaving the house, as my mother was still trying to call me even as I walked here. Maybe she was right to worry about me because for me, everything felt different.
I hated the pain in my chest. Every time my favourites list ringtone rang, I instinctively rushed to pick up and was devastated that it was not her. Every time I saw the photos posted at the head of my bed or on my phone, it reminded me that she was not here anymore. Everything seemed to jump at me, to remind me of her, and as I walked to sit down on the rocks near the lake, I knew I had to make a choice or I would continue drowning in this sadness.
I took out the stone that had still been in my pocket. It was a dull brown stone with fractures and sharp edges that seemed to bite into my palm. Looking at it, I remembered a smaller yet similar stone I had on my birthday. It was from when I realised that the people who were my closest friends had not checked up, no matter how I reached out. In my anger I threw it into the lake for the first time, watching it sink with my feeling of loss but also letting the greyness wash over the excitement of blowing out candles on birthday cakes and the fun yet messy sleepovers as celebrations.
Looking at the stone again, I knew that if I threw this stone into this lake, I would wash away all the pain in the memories; everything from the initial confusion to the hospital visits and even the time when we found out she could not even step out into the sunlight. But I knew it would bleach all the amazing moments I shared with her, and I would never feel the heat of those after-school summers in the parking lots, hear the sound of her laughter as she held up my little teacup, or feel her firm hold as we walked through the woods.
So I sat there surrounded by rocks and the lake, mulling over the years, the months and the weeks. Finally, I got up to return home, leaving the pond rippling behind me.