Everyday

Inspired by an Afrikaans essay written by my friend, Jani. Even though you're not on , you deserve a shout-out!

Jane's POV.

I force myself to think about it every day. It's not healthy, it's not good for me and it's definitely not fun. But I do it none the less.

I can still smell the smoke in the air. It's thick and suffocating and it makes me couch and wheeze. I can't escape the putrid fumes, burning my nose and eyes. It smells like fear…

But every now and again, I smell her sweet scent – cinnamon. And it makes it worth it.

I can still hear the screams of terror. The crying, the moaning, the yells for help. The entire building was in a blind fear, searching desperately for someone – anyone – to find them. But I was searching for only one voice. And I couldn't find it.

But every now and again I hear her humming like she did when she made breakfast in the morning. Sweet and melodic and just a little bit husky. And it makes it worth it.

I can still see her… It haunts me whenever I close my eyes. Stuck beneath what looks like a part of the metal staircase. It pinned her to the floor. She looked pale and tiny and, worst of all, still. She didn't yell or scream or even look at me.

But every now and again, I see her eyes. Blue and green and gorgeous and they look straight back at me. Inside of them, I see love. And it makes it worth it.

I can still feel the scrapes and sores on my hands. The blisters burning onto my fingers as I pull her from the underneath a scolding hot beam. The weight of her limp figure in my arms, unresponsive and quiet…

But every now and again, I feel her soft hair beneath my fingers. I feel the silky skin on her hand she let me hold only when we were alone… And it makes it worth it.

I think about that day every time I go to bed, every time I lie motionlessly on my couch, every time I close my eyes.

Nothing is the same without her here; nothing will ever be the same.

I torture myself by replaying that night in my mind every day, by thinking about her every day. I know I should stop. Everybody says so and I know they're right.

But between the horrifying memories of how I lost her, there are images of who she was.

And it makes it worth it.

This was really depro and maybe not as good as the idea originally intended to be…. And I can say that because it wasn't my idea. Please review!

Zanny