Writing Prompt # 2
When they tell my story, it will always start at the end. I am life, and life can only be understood backwards.
But if I tell my own story, where would I start?
I would start at the kettle. An imaginary kettle, in an imaginary home, on an imaginary stove. The water beginning to boil, the kettle whistling ever so lightly that no one could hear. The flame so low that it could continue heating the water for years without drying it up. But the flame is always hot, no matter how low, and after all these years, I suddenly realize there is no water left as the kettle begins to wheeze.
The water vapors envelop me as the wheezing grows louder. No one but I can hear it, for its my life, and suddenly my own life begins to make sense to me. The shattered dreams, the wounds, the pain, the pleasures, the mistakes, the people, the friends, the misery, the purpose, everything, all the pieces start coming back together to form a whole. Mismatched pieces of a puzzle suddenly form a picture.
The wheezing and the vapors turn into voices and surround me, making a cocoon for me to rest. I stop, I pause, and I listen. And it makes sense.
‘Everything is as it should be.’
‘Everything makes sense.’
I just had a different purpose.
I draw in a long breath as the cocoon closes around me. I exhale quickly, greedy for another breath, but the instant I exhale it all goes dark.