Seven Minutes to Regret
This story begins with an ending.
I
stand on the cliff-edge and watch the light fading over the
sea, casting its rosy pink glow over the craggy Cornish rocks.
The breeze is light and caressing over my bare arms and legs
but the fading sunlight brings little warmth to the harsh
coastline. Still I don’t move off the precipice, instead
wishing that if I stayed here long enough I could become part
of the cliff-edge. As immovable and unfeeling as a rock. Or
perhaps I could slip off into the seemingly calm sea?
The
currents that lurked round the maze of tunnels would easily pull
me under. I’m a good swimmer but I would be no match for
the serene, mortal, everlasting power of the tides that manage to
consume whole chunks of colossal cliff each year during the
Atlantic storms.
I close my
eyes as the waves of silent regret roll down my cheeks. I imagine
what it would be like to take two tiny steps. The grass would be
soft and comforting; velvety blades gently stroking my skin. The
blades of grass under my feet were harmless, unlike so many
blades that I had pressed to my marked skin over the months.
I blinked
my eyes open slowly, my eyelashes wet with tears. I let my foot
step forward so my toes hang over the edge. The dark water below
looks tranquil but I know the hidden danger that lies below the
surface.
One
step.
I need
just one tiny little step to send me tumbling over the edge.
I reach my
foot out and picture a memory, just a tiny snapshot of happiness
from my idyllic early childhood. I step through the air. For a
moment I feel nothing except the rush and the exhilaration of
flying. I feel free for a second, like a caged bird finally
stretching its wings.
Then I hit
the water. The choking, black expanse of bitter water seeps into
my lungs as my shocked body experiences the pain of hitting such
a flat, rigid wall. Before I can react the undercurrents contort
my limbs and torso as I’m dragged along and even deeper
under by its grasping hands.
People say
drowning is meant to be a peaceful way to die. But it
isn’t, not for me. For me, it feels like torture.
I lose all
sense of time in the blackness. The struggle may have lasted an
hour or a minute. But a sense of time is irrelevant; I know my
battle is over when I feel myself float away, like I’m
drifting off to sleep. It is actually quite peaceful, watching
the distorted sky’s peachy glow from so far down below.
They say
that after you die you have seven minutes of brain activity left.
Seven minutes to regret.
I feel myself rise, like a giant hand is lifting me from the
sea-bed. I look back and I see myself, laying still, eyes closed
lazily, like I’m finally at peace. As I drift upwards my
mind doesn’t share the peaceful, inaccessible isolation of
the sea-floor. I’m tormented by now transparent memories,
as vindictive and ruthless as a vengeful ghost.
I float up
over the cliff level. The horizon matches the memories I relive.
It
burns like a giant has thrown a match at a petrol
coated skyline. My old memories follow the trend, my twisted
interpretation burning out and the truth trickling in like the
darkness of night coming into the vivid sky.
Tonight my
memories played out before my eyes. And someday yours will too.
But make sure yours, unlike mine are worth watching. I wish you
all the very thing I threw away my chance at. I wish you all a
long and happy life.
I
wrote this for english literature.
I put it on here to show you all to make sure your memories are
worth watching. Talk to me about your problems, anytime.
xxxx
Eleanor loves you....
xx
AreYouSerious · 1 decade ago
Wow! Congratulations on copying my award winning Wattpad story and tweaking it to look like your own. PATHETIC! You didn't even change the title. Seriously? Are you not intelligent and creative enough to come up with your own ideas? I poured my heart into that story (which is why I won 2 awards and was given a chance to read it in front of an audience and to have it published). And for what? For you to horrendously butcher it? You should be ashamed of yourself. It's people like you that make other's commit suicide, and you pretend to want to help them? Are you kidding me? If you can't respect someone enough to not steal their hard earned work and pass it off as your own, how can you care about anybody? I'm tired of people like you (and no, you're not the first one to pull this crap) stealing my work and taking credit for something someone else did. Have you no dignity? So congrats! You've successfully angered the author. If I were you, I'd look up copyright laws, because you can get it so much crap for something like this.
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