the visitor

this story was written during my year 9 English narrative assessment it is a story threw partly one of my personal experiences.


1. The Visitor

The  Visitor.


Three hours, three hours I’ve waited here glaring at the walls. My tear filled eyes begin to rain down my face, I saw the side effects of a happy life I knew it was too good to be true. I knew it was coming , ever since dad left she fell to pieces, well I wouldn’t say pieces because she wasn’t even a piece she was a tiny morsel left of sadness.

Depression falls upon people sometimes; the lucky ones are the ones who make it out. My mother was not one of those people. Those months where the hardest for us, the sleepless nights the deprived days of motherly input I craved. Those months I grew up more than I ever knew I would.

Being my own parent teaching myself what I needed to do, but I couldn’t contain my jealousy for the normal families, normality was a stranger to me. My sister had gone back to university my dad was so near yet distant and everything seemed to be wilting away from me.

Stunned. I glanced across to find a new arrival on our lonely street, eyes as brown as polished mahogany tables, hair as orange as the faded sun I watched from my bedroom a smile so radiant everyone around was happy because he was, not me. I was frozen until he glanced upon me on the darkened side of the road.

That night at 6:30 I had a knock at my door I gingerly creped to open it to find that same radiant smile standing before me. A smile so eager fixated on his face. He took a heavy breath. “hello” he muttered quietly , “erm hi? “ I replied. “I’ve just moved across from you  and my mum said I should come over and introduce myself” “oh ok” , he took a step into my house and said confidently “I’m Alistair Rosmand but you can call me Ali if you like?” I knew from that moment on something was changing.

Months of friendship flew by and he was still the freckled face Ali I knew, but something was different he was physically the same but emotionally different. That Tuesday night we planned to meet at the corner of the street as usual I waited there for three hours but there was no sign of Ali.

I finally accepted he wasn’t coming to turn around and there he was no smile just hurt in his face.

 We sat in silence at the ‘den’ across the farmer’s field. Was it my fault? I didn’t now because he wouldn’t let me in, I finally shouted WHATS WRONG WITH YOU? And sat beside him. A river of tears streamed down his limp face “I’m ill Louise, really ill” my face dropped I was going to lose my best friend my only friend.

It was Alis second month of chemotherapy and I could tell his time was running out. Each day I tried to visit but he would always be too tired or sleeping. Ali was slipping away from me his beautiful coral hair reduced to a patch he admirable eyes darkened his strong face turned fragile I was losing him.     

I visited his hospital room everyday listening to his hospital monitor beep like a bomb waiting to go off. His eyes would flicker like a on and off switch. Each day I visited and each day I saw the life fade from him, when he woke he would tell me how much I meant to him and how he would always be with me but I didn’t want that I wanted the real Ali with me! However his last days where the worst that I spent with him he was hardly conscious and that’s when it happened. The 12th of October 2014 was the exact date Alistair Rosmand died.

It was judgement day for my mum, I remember sitting in the doctors over hearing she was getting better and she was finally off the pills. Dad had moved back in and our family was on the road to recovery.

This was all because of a boy named Ali he helped me see the light even when things became so dark around us. Even though I miss him it okay because I know friends are like stars you may not always see them but you know there always there. Ali was my star. 

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