Summertime

by Mercedes Adams

I bit my lip whilst my heart thudded heavily against my chest, making a throbbing sound echo in my ears. I moved the Hawk to the right, dodging a falling plane.

Gaining speed, I stayed on a vertical course for heaven. I drove the plane above the ominous, tenebrous clouds and leveled out to plan my attack. Feeling dizzy I carefully leant my head against the window, trying to clear my mind. I felt the cool from outside pushing at the glass, fighting to feel the warmth from within.

I reminisced about the days when I would tiptoe to the bay window at the front of our house just to glimpse the light peeking over the horizon. At the start of every summer until I was ten my father would join me as I watched the sun rise. We never spoke, simply leant against the glass and stared out at the sea which was beginning to shimmer from the morning light. When I turned ten, my dad died. It was the beginning of summer; the coldest summer yet. For four more years the sun did not shine; the rays of light never entered my room; and the ocean never sparkled. My mum never dealt with it, she never accepted it; his possessions were always in the same place, his belongings never touched. After his death she began forgetting things. She expected him to come home, for months she asked me why he was so late, and every day I would have to remind her that he wasn’t coming back. Mum cried as though she’d never heard the news before, questioning me why and how. I didn’t understand how she didn’t remember.

Quickly, I decided to dive the plane straight down, firing ahead of me through the clouds, this way it would be less likely I would be spotted by the enemy.

My father worked in the army his whole life; I don’t think he ever considered another job. Each day he would bring home tales of his daily battles; of his victories and losses. He didn’t go to war every day, hardly once a month, but none the less I asked for a story. I would be told the wild adventures from his younger days; he was my inspiration. By age eight there was nothing I wanted more than to be a part of my father’s world; to be amongst the action; feel the adrenalin contaminate my body; and feel the strength and power my father always talked about. Despite the bulletproof image he had created of himself, he still died. No one can escape the inevitable, so there was one story I never heard. The one I wanted to hear most. I wanted to know how it happened, but of course; he could not tell me. No one could tell me because his body was never found.

Feeling something harshly jolt the Hawk, I looked at my controls as I felt the air pressure drop. I tried to concentrate on what might be wrong; everything appeared to be fine. Then another tremor vibrated through the plane, creating a screeching noise; almost like nails down a chalk board, then immediately all my controls dropped to zero.

My mum died when I was 16; Alzheimer's destroyed her brain. She always told me to make her proud, despite frequently forgetting my name.

My plane was on a downwards spiral and I knew I was destined for the same fate as my father and mother. I leaned my head against the window and prayed for them before closing my eyes forever.