I woke up really early today, excited for the trip to the amusement park mother and father promised me a while back.
Although I vaguely remember being there, I cannot fully place the memory into the timeline, even from my earliest moments. But honestly, I've just been looking forward to this a lot and I can't seem to be able to sleep any longer.
One thing worried me though: there was nobody home. I had been all alone for sure, because out of desperation I checked through every nook and cranny, hoping that this was just a strange early game of hide and seek. But it wasn't, to my dismay.
Later in the day, I learnt that she was ill, and that's where my parents had gone. At the hospital, with her, as they very often were because she needed them. I fully understood that, and was not jealous. At the time in which I received the news, it was just around noon, which made my heart fill with helpless hope; a familiar feeling.
I can't remember when I met her, but I know how. Somehow, I had found myself in a room beside my parents, who were crying. This lead me to think that she was someone very important, this hypothesis only strengthened by how often my parents visited.
I couldn't possibly muster enough courage to ask them on the spot, and it would seem arrogant, wouldn't it? Asking for my own wishes to be fulfilled when she was in greater need of their assistance and company?
And so, after a few minutes, while they were hovering around the girl's bed and muttering short phrases to each other, I decided to break what I thought to be, more or less, silence. Although they didn't seem to hear me at first, perhaps my words came through, which they often didn't. I fully understood that also, because they had so much to think about, all the time, having to care for me and her and their jobs and the house and everyone else.
Mother started to softly sob into father's shirt. He always wore fancy outfits for the many meetings and other such formal gatherings his job practically consisted of. Mother kept whispering that she was sorry, and also something along the lines that she should not have done something, but I thought perhaps the second part was not referring to me, and so I chose to let it slip.
Mother and father were talking quietly next to me, whispering so that barely I could hear. The girl's condition had gotten worse over the course of the visit today, shortly after mother seemed to break down a little. I wished there was something I could do, but she seemed so sad all the time that my actions and words merely went through her without any effect. I have seen this happen many times when I have tried to approach my father also, and I am sorry that they are in so much pain. I'm sure they're just protecting me from it.
They mentioned the girl's name, little sentences tied together with various sniffles. Within some there seemed to be smiles hidden throughout whereas in some, there was mere pain. She's called Neva, an unusual but really nice name. Come to think of it, I've forgotten my own name. I'm sure after Neva gets better, everything will turn back to normal. Perhaps my loss of memory is something related to what happened to her.
She only seems to get worse, or so the expressions of the doctors that come to give news of the current situation give away. They hadn't been specific, and I was fully understanding of the matter. They must not give false hope, but at the same time they must try to calm the racing hearts of the ones that the patient loves; ones that love them back, which very much was the situation here, except nothing seemed to work.
Then instead of giving brief answers to my parents' burning questions that needed not be spoken because they were obvious, the doctor called my parents in. He seemed to not notice me either, but I fully understood. He was under a lot of stress, just like mother and father.
Using the same technique of showing grief that was to speak in words so silent they might as well have been thoughts, the man successfully made my parents cry. Of course, he never meant to and of course, he wished with all his might as I always had that he could take their pain away but we both knew it couldn't happen. No, we all knew that, and that probably includes Neva, too.
Instinctively once in there, father held Neva's hand for a few moments, before pulling one of the chairs that I hadn't noticed from the left corner of the hospital room next to the girl's bed, beckoning mother to sit on it, which she did and he promptly left the room.
They both seemed to know what had to be done, whilst I was clueless, but I stood next to mother anyway.
She began to tell a story of a girl with golden hair who was so beautiful that all she did would show it. She was kind, loving, gentle, and she had loved the amusement park, which made me smile, but I'm sure mother didn't notice. I fully understood, though, as always.
In any case, the girl had gone there with her parents, on a beautiful day with sunshine bathing the world as if nothing was going to be wrong. She who was as beautiful as could be, to use the exact words of my mother, loved the swing ride so as per usual, her mother had paid for the girl's ticket, and she waited with a camera, smiling beside the girl's father.
Once the ride had started, something went wrong with the very seat that the girl had chosen, and she was thrown into the air, in the direction of a lake beside the amusement park. But because the amusement park loved her, and she loved it very, very much in return, it swallowed up her body, her pain, her soul and it is said she still roams the amusement park; every so often sitting in the exact same seat, smiling for the pictures that her mother had never been able to take.
I'm not sure why, but as I was certain the story came to an end, I felt a burning desire to look back at Neva. Although I didn't know when I looked away or what inspired me to do so in the first place, in the moment in which my eyes met with her profile again I could fully understand much clearer than ever what had happened to her, to me, to us through the silent tears that she and I shed that day.