Speckle of Hope. (Advent Calendar Story Train 2022)
Welcome to the Advent Calendar Story Train, where you can read through 24 stories under the theme The Gift. Thank you for reading today's story. The next one will be available to read on December 6th, titled "The Words". The link will be active tomorrow when the post goes live.
If you missed yesterday's you can go and read it here.
I am so excited to announce my collaboration with writer Ari Meghlen for this wonderful holiday special! Each day from December first to December twenty-fourth a story of the theme "The Gift." Will be uploaded on Ari Meghlens website for you to read and enjoy! Make sure to visit this page everday for the link to the previous and future stories.
Speckle of Hope.
A speckle of white light shone through an opening in the wall.
There were times when she wished so badly someone would come to fix it. After all, it was a mere hole which shouldn’t be too much to solve. The light bothered her when dawn woke, it bothered her every time her neighbor would turn on the lights at odd hours of the night, it bothered her when she was studying at the desk on the other side of the room and when she would look up she would accidently stare into one of the brightest rays of the sun and blink a few times to get the hazy images out from the back of her eyelids.
It didn’t become a serious issue until the death of her brother.
She looked around the vacant room, the sofas where she and her brother used to spend movie night Fridays. The dining table where they only ate if guests arrived. The kitchen where they would cook up all sorts of edible tragedies and laugh about it when they’d have mastered the recipe. Their bedrooms where they’d spend half their day inside yet acknowledge their presence through the concrete walls. The hallway where they’d always share such intense conversations before departing to their universities. And the staircase filled with frames of memories from when he was alive and from when she was happy.
The opening in the wall didn’t matter then.
She had things to look forward to which made her forget how damning that hole ever was.
She had her brother.
The first few weeks she started noticing how much of a nuisance it was, she procrastinated it for another day, believing the snow and snow clouds would cover up the light by the time it turned spring. But it was snowing, and there were snow clouds in the sky, but the hole was more of a bother than ever.
Sometimes she’d peek through the opening when she was feeling lonely when the absence of her brother proved sharper than his presence and watch as the street lit up their houses and decorated their lawns in time for the Christmas season.
A season of joy, they said.
A time to give, they said.
Funny how her joy was taken away.
The kids would run around the snow with their parents running behind them to put on their gloves, they’d spend hours building snowmen to watch it melt the next morning until they would begin again. Oh, how much she wished she had their fervor, to keep building knowing it will all be gone by the morning. When she realized how much more lonesome it made her feel, she would stop, and instead flip through the pages of a childhood album.
Her house was quite bare, most of her things packed away in boxes and most of his things along with them. There was not a single ornament hung, not a light lit and the space beneath the fireplace stood empty for where the Christmas tree should have been. The space where she and her brother would religiously build the tree together at the start of Advent and disassemble it by the end.
It was a car wreck that had taken him.
A slip of attention for a mere second had taken away all the remaining years of his life.
And all the blissful years of hers.
The frames stood catching dust, so did the lamps and shelves. The only things left to pack before she would move out of the house, she and her brother had rented for till they graduate. It’s been a few months now; everyone had told her grief is like a fresh wound waiting to heal over time and patience. It wasn’t. It was a scar dug deep in one’s flesh that would never leave but could be hidden.
That was what she was doing. Hiding her scars.
Scars that never would have been if it weren’t for what had happened.
A reminder of her endurance, the pain she suffered through it all, and a reminder of when she would overcome it. But that time hasn’t arrived yet, for her it never would.
It was the evening; Christmas music was blasted from each residence. The couples slow danced in their bedrooms, fragranced with expensive wine and pure love. The children sat around the fireplace singing carols as the parents watched in each other’s embrace. The bachelors and bachelorettes spend their time in the company of their new-found friendships and relationships. But she was the only person on the streets who not only lost her Christmas spirit but any spirit at all. All things she lacked at before came to a complete halt after his death, all things she worked on whilst he was still alive were the remaining ashes of a burning fire, everything she had a passion for dwindled to smoke and rose to heaven where he watched her with silent caution.
She was her own shadow, disappearing into the darkness she created.
The Christmas lights blurred to distorted flashes. The carols faded to hums of silent tunes which were replaced by a high-pitched erratic sound. The Christmas spirit darkened around her into an aura she would much rather not be amidst . The ornaments held her resentment, the Christmas trees symbolized her regret, the sea of blackened snow around reminded her of the loss she’ll never be able to swim through. Evening twilight made way to midnight. The sky was covered in snow clouds, no stars to glow or moon to gleam.
The fog of bitter sorrow consumed her, the void of defiance beneath her feet swallowed her from the ground. Darkness seeped into her vision until all she could see was everything she had lost, what had been taken from her and never given back.
Blinded by the one person who gave her light.
Small moments and snippets of her life replayed in her head. The sound of his laughter, the twinkle of his smile, the depth of his eyes, the grace in his gestures, the delight in his words and the innocence of his conscience all came to her at once, drowning her until she sunk to the bottom. The air was thick with unresolved emotions and the darkness mocked her for allowing herself to come this far deep.
And somewhere within the shadows of her darkness was a speckle of light.
Falling from above like an angel to save her from the hell she created.
Something to latch on to when the hope she had drowned with her.
A gift she was given, but never asked for.
Reaching a reluctant hand out, the rays danced on her fingertips, beckoning her not to think twice. She didn’t.
At once the Christmas lights became clearer, the carols engulfed her thoughts, and the Christmas spirit filled the room. The stars shone on the canvas of the gleaming moon and the snow turned to its angelic color.
Frenzied sensations overtook her. The room was as it had been five seconds ago. The children were still playing outside. The dusty frames and shelves stood as it were. For a moment she was relieved, but when she turned to her bedroom, she sucked a breath in.
On the wall where the opening once lingered was a single Christmas ornament hung on a nail.
Christina is a passionate composer of poetry and short stories. She firmly believes that writing isn’t words scribbled on paper, but a living piece of a soul ignited with the fire of passion and imagination.
She loved spending her childhood reading fairytales. Growing up she has expanded her library of genres and has found solace in the pages of books all while traversing the path of writing her own.
Though an established writer of fantasy and historical fiction, one can find dozens of romance and murder mysteries cozied between her novels-in-writing. On the non-fictious side, she owns a full-time blog, podcast, and virtual library for her global readers. Other than writing and reading she enjoys digital designing and photography, another form of expressing life’s beauties with a creative approach.
When she isn’t jotting down poetic verses or plotting supernatural storylines, you can find her beneath a blanket with an unfinished book, reading past the late hours.
Happy Holidays!