The Fall of Abby

This is a short story I wrote for Creative Writing..and I'm very proud of this one; I really like it. So tell me what you think!

The Fall of Abby

As the garage door hums open, I grab my blue twelve speed bike by the handle and lazily make my way to the driveway. The autumn air catches my breath as it pierces my lungs. Although the sun shines, I see the cloud of my breath before me. My hand-me-down bike leans up against me as I zip up my worn-down red flannel jacket. I swing my leg over my bike to have my muddied, once white tennis shoed foot land on the pedal and roll me forward. I sit up on the seat as I pull away from my modest, bluish gray house and towards the bumpy asphalt of the street.

I must admit, it is a beautiful day. The vibrant blue sky contrasts with the raging fires of the trees. Some trees are still igniting, others are burned down to the branches and limbs. I watch some of the crispy flames drift down lifelessly like ash, being controlled by the will of the wind. They fall on the neighbor’s yard, on the sidewalk and onto the street in front of me. Aah, that sound. I’ve always loved the crackle of crunching dried up leaves. The pitch street wears the confetti of red, orange and yellow flakes. The leaves are my favorite part of the fall; I shared that admiration with my little sister, Abby. Day by day we would watch the green leaves reluctantly surrender to their bright deaths, their burnouts. “Death never was so beautiful,” she told me. I turn out of the quiet neighborhood and head towards the back road.

As the cars pass me by, their spinning tires kick up the lively colors of the leaves. They dance before me, flitting side-to-side, twirling and freewheeling to the ground; so graceful, so gentle, so lovely…just like Abby. Abby was the best dancer in her ballet class. Being so light on her feet, she was always the star of the show. On days such as this, when she left her classes, she claimed that she had to dance with the leaves. She would spin and twirl, rise and fall…but she was wrong: the leaves danced with her. They dance because of her.

As I glance around, I admire each home I see; they all seem so cheerful, smiling with their curtained windows. Although their outsides turn brown as the flowers wilt and leaves blanket the yellowing grass, you can feel the life, warmth and love on the inside simply by looking at them. Windows never lie. The homes grow scarce the closer I get to the highway; everything is more open here, even the wind seems broader and colder. The homes really do make a difference; it must be the love inside them. It’s only after the homes disappear that I notice how cold I really am. I wipe my runny nose on my stained, scratchy sleeve only to feel the cold tip on my arm; I suppose my father’s old jacket isn’t as thick as it once was.

Short wooden fence posts along the countryside sag down into the long grass and weeds; they’re hardly noticeable. Little things like that make up a small town: rotting wood made useless by time and decay. The purpose they once served is unknown, but that fence must have had a reason for being, else it would never have been. I pass each stump and I ponder about how at one point they stood upright and supported anything or anyone. Now that the earth has consumed them, they’re nothing to fall back on. If it weren’t for the few remnants, one would get lost, at least I would be. If it weren’t for that small, insignificant fence, I wouldn’t know if I was on the right track in this wasteland.

The occasional passing cars chill me through and through. The soft whisper breathes in gusts, pushing me back and forth; I almost lose my balance. I clench the handlebars with white knuckles as I slam my right foot down on the rocks between the road and the weeds. I stare at my chalky hands as the whispering settles back down; they’re so pale, like Abby’s skin. We always called it her “fairer look”, for she hated resembling a ghost. She was wispy and airy, but she would deny it.

I see the fence spires ahead of me; gothic spears, knobbed, black and reaching into the sky. I look dead ahead and fly as the crow towards the darkened gate. The wind styles my already unkempt hair as it forces each straight up and to the left. My feet cease to pedal and glide onto the wide, earthy walkway, passing the small parking lot around me. I ease onto the breaks and put my feet down to steady myself as I peer through the bars. The array of tombstones varies in size and shape; whether round, square, flat, thick, fancy, plain, they all have the same function. I lean my bike up against the gate after I get off and find my way to the entrance. The wind seems gentler, almost inviting, as I take my first steps along the graveyard’s paved path.

I make my way to the further left, where the maple tree stands aglow. The whisper makes my jacket flutter, the telltale sign it’s a couple sizes too big. There’s a spot between two towering tombstones where a slab of granite lies on the ground. I kneel down and feel the name at the top, “Abigail Jean Roberts”, and read, “Our shining star—we still look up to you” below it. Tears fill my eyes as I trace the shooting stars on the sides. The stone’s touch is frigid, as were her hands in mine. I close my eyes tightly and cup my head in my hands, as if everything would be different when I opened them again. I still hide my tears from her every time I visit; she never liked to see anyone cry. Abby wanted to die happy; she could not see any of us cry, else she would cry too.

I feel a tickle on my fingers. I let my hands down to find a yellow leaf on her grave. I gently pick the leaf up by the stem and twirl it with my fingers. I reminisce of her golden curls, how they’d spin as she danced, and how heart wrenching it was to pick up the locks after they fell. As I dropped it to the ground I couldn’t help but think of the day she died: two years ago, today.

I held her frail body in my arms; she was tired of the hospital bed, and wanted to sit underneath the tree she saw every day. I held her close as she gazed up at the flames on the branches; the joy in her eyes was irreplaceable. I know because those bright blue eyes turned towards mine, and I saw their permanent sparkle. She then looked down at the gathering leaves, and I could have sworn she fell asleep. I brushed her frozen cheek to wake her, only to receive no response at all. I turned her towards me, and whispered her name…she did not stir. It was then I knew that Abby had died happy.

I stare at her grave, feeling empty like usual. The tears trickle down and splatter upon her name below. Even though I read her full name, all I see is “Abby-Jean”. I place the golden leaf upon one of the shooting stars, and then dry my leaking eyes with my sleeve. As I rise to my feet and put my numb hands in my grungy jean pockets, I stare down at her name and whisper back to the wind “Death never was so beautiful…death never was so beautiful.”