Author's Note: Keep in mind that when Susan is sixty, it would be 1988. Or somewhere around that.
It takes Susan another two days before she can even summon up the strength to go out again, let alone complete anything on the list.
What was I thinking? Susan despairs, holding the now crumpled piece of paper in her hands. As if I could ever complete anything on this list.
She is sitting in her bed, wearing a thin nightgown. It is morning, and Susan has the urge to look at the list again. Her eyes scroll down, and rests on Number 7. She takes a long look at it, and a deep longing rises inside her. Even if the others seemed near impossible, at least Number 7 seemed doable.
She drags herself out of bed, joints creaking. She looks at the clock and sees that it is eight-forty-three in the morning. She eats a small piece of bread, and goes for a shower.
While the water is cascading down her body, she tries not to notice the white strands of hair slowly disengaging from her scalp. She tries not to notice her growing waistline, and her dry, scaly skin.
Twenty minutes later, she is ready. She steps out of her apartment, and soon she is outside. She shivers involuntarily, the breeze tugging at her still damp hair.
She walks, and she think about Number 7.
7. Learn to shoot again, was what she had written.
She tries to remember anywhere with an archery ground, and she recalls that someone recently built one in a shopping centre. She shudders, and remembers a time when archery was in the wide open grounds.
The more she walks, the more uncertain she feels.
The great, modern building looms in front of her. Susan can't remember the name of this shopping centre. Its walls are a bright yellow, and Susan thinks that it is too garish. A couple of teenagers pass by, heading towards she mall. The girls are wearing skimpy clothes, even in the bitter cold. Susan shakes her head, and walks onward towards the glass doors.
The glass doors open automatically, and it takes Susan a moment to realize that they are supposed to operate that way. She wonders just how long she had been cut off from the rest of the world.
Music is blaring out of somewhere in the shopping mall. It is about seven stories tall, and Susan gawps. There is a large, obviously fake Christmas tree in the middle of the concourse, and plenty of people are milling around it, admiring.
Susan doesn't know where to go next.
She feels rather foolish, in her worn coat and too-tight pants, standing in a shopping mall. Her toes curl, and she sees a sign saying Information Counter. She hurries over. There is a young man behind the desk.
'May I help you?' he asks cordially, smiling.
'Archery?' is all Susan asks, and she curses herself inwardly for her inability to converse properly. She hasn't properly spoken to anyone in two decades, ever since the death of her husband. But that's another story, one that will be revealed to you later.
'Third floor. Use the elevator and turn left. You can't miss it. Have a nice day.'
Susan bobs her gray head, and she walks towards the elevators with a pit in her stomach. The first and only time she ever got on one was when her husband and her had went out for a Valentine's Day dinner. Even then she had been terrified. Her sentiments had not changed.
Even worse, it was glass.
She gulps, and presses a button. It lights up, and Susan waits. With every second, she feel more and more nervous. With a ping!, the elevator doors open, and there are two other people inside, both looking rather bored. The surrounding walls are glass. She steps inside, shaking.
The metal doors close, and Susan has and overwhelming sense of claustrophobia. Her mind swirls. Susan's fingers clench, and she feels the other two give her odd glances. The elevator gives a lurch, and they are off.
Susan clenches her eyes shut. When she opens her eyes again, she realizes that she is now at the topmost floor. The elevator doors open, and the two people shuffle off. Susan reaches out a shaky finger and presses the button '3'. The elevator descends.
After a few minutes, Susan doesn't feel nearly as scared as before. She is at the third floor now, and she steps off, readjusting her coat, and firmly patting the outline of her purse in her coat. She turns left, and sure enough, there it is. She couldn't have missed it anyway. There is a sign outside, which flashes almost obnoxiously, taunting her.
She steps in. The walls are white. Opposite of her are the targets. The people here are mostly teenagers, having a blast. Susan feels increasingly smaller, and she walks up to the counter, and requests ten arrows. She figures that if she still couldn't do it today, she might as well come back again tomorrow.
A few minutes later, she is standing at the very last lane, and ten brightly colored plastic arrows in tow. Her heart beats faster. The bow is also plastic, but thankfully the right size.
She stands in front of one target. The bulls eye is red. She picks up one arrow, and slowly positions it. She can feel plenty of people turning around to watch her, and she realizes how odd it must be, for a woman her age to be indulging in such petty activities normally reserved for youngsters.
She hears someone snicker, and her arms sweat. She raises the bow, and all she can see is the red dot in the middle of the circle target, some ten metres away. She stretches the string. The bow feels almost unbearably comfortable in her hands, and so very familiar.
She repositions her feet. Her fingers strain against the hard plastic, and for a moment she remembers the bow and arrow Father Christmas a lifetime ago, and her heart aches. Then, she releases the arrow.
The arrow whizzes forward, hits dead centre.
Susan's jaw drops, and so do many others.
Someone claps, and many others follow. Susan gives an embarrassed smile, and feels so very alive right then. Her entire being sang at the thought of shooting again, and she quickly aligns another arrow. She aims.
She shoots.
And this one split her first one in half.
'Whoa!' someone exclaims.
She quickly shoots, and aims. Centre.
'Can you teach me how?' a little girl scurries up to her, eyes beseeching. Her mother quietly reprimands her, pulling her away.
'No, it's okay.' Susan says awkwardly. 'I can teach you.' The little girl squeals with delight, and proffers her own bow and arrow. Susan pulls her over.
For the next thirty minutes, she tells her everything she knows, from where your fingers should be to how your feet should be positioned. At the end of her impromptu lesson, the girl can shoot remarkably well.
Susan smiles, and the girl smiles back. It isn't until then that Susan recalls just how much she loves little children.
This little girl, coincidentally named Lucy, marvels at how a simple smile can light up this old lady's face so much.
This is how Susan spends the rest of the morning, shooting until her fingers ache. She needed more than ten arrows, and now her purse is empty. But as she walks back home, grin on her face, she thinks that it was worth every single cent she had.
That night, her hands buzz. She longs to have the bow and arrow in her hands again. When she is trying to sleep, Susan realizes that she has gotten a part of herself back again.
She is alive once more. Her soul is alive, though her body is slowly failing her, and Susan knows that she doesn't have much time left.
Susan takes The List out again, and clumsily puts a cross on the number 7.
Susan Is Twelve
It was a dark night, and Susan was huddled under her bed sheets, her whole body was trembling and her eyes scrunched shut tightly. So tightly, it was hurting her. Her whole body was drenched with cold sweat.
Susan was scared to death.
She was scared of the possibility that a bomb might drop on her home at any second. The entire house is quiet. She chanced a look at the window and she winced. There wasn't anything, of course.
Susan turned over in bed, and pulled her knees closer to her chest. The silence continued, and Susan kept expecting the terrible, terrible sound of a bomb exploding, people screaming, buildings falling, windows shattering.
Her father had gone to fight in this very war.
Her entire being revolted at the idea of a war. Such senseless things: why did people keep starting them? Nothing good ever came out of them. Broken families, dead siblings, lost loved ones… that was the result.
Susan abruptly made a decision. She crept out of bed, and opened her bedroom door. It didn't make a sound. Susan stepped out, her soft bunny slippers muffling her footsteps. She quickly made her way over to another room.
She pushed the door open and saw Lucy sitting upright in her bed, looking intently out of her own window. She jumped when she heard her door swing open, and relaxed when she saw Susan's silhouette in the dark.
'Lucy,' Susan whispered, and she slinked into bed with Lucy. She hugged her little sister and found that she was trembling too. She didn't need to ask why.
'You couldn't sleep too?' Lucy said, and she burrowed her soft head into Susan's shoulder.
'Not a wink,' Susan admitted, and she rested her chin against her head.
'Thanks for coming over, Su,' Lucy whispered into Susan's chest, and she smiled.
'No problem.'
'I think I can sleep now.' Lucy yawned, and her eyes closed shut. Her breaths come slower and steadier. Susan waited until Lucy was properly asleep, then she only closed her own eyes.
She fell asleep, younger sister protectively in her arms.
Little did she know that almost the same thing she was doing now was happening next door, where Peter and Edmund slept.
Author's Note: Hope ya liked it! REVIEW, people!