The Secret

Author Details: My name is Sanjana and I am from Grade 9A. I love Math, animals, reading books, rapping, and dancing.
Illustrated By: Bharthi, 9A

This dark room used to be his bedroom. Everybody else was downstairs at his funeral. How could I attend it if I were a secret? His secret. I was here to mourn my world’s loss, not to waste time on these stupid questions.

We were like brothers. I took care of him as though he was my blood brother. Life was so much better when he and I used to return drunk and wake up in a pool of sweat in the morning. I used to get him ready for school and learn by myself whilst helping him with his homework once he returned. He hailed from a rich family where his parents were busy, rich and confident enough to give Walsh his own house. I was an orphan thus, I lived with him and helped take care of the house and Walsh. He was a smart, sporty kid in school who had lots of friends and was popular but never hosted anyone in this damned house.

Of the near five hundred people at his funeral at the moment, four hundred and ninety nine of them were his friends. The other person was his mother, Natalie Diakrow who was standing near the coffin with a straight face. Dressed in an ink-black skirt and a blouse studded with diamonds, which made a beautiful design, she looked like she was going to a party rather than to her son’s funeral. Her plain gold choker or the shimmering black high heels didn’t help either but at least she had the courtesy to attend. Walsh’s father Mr.Yeon Diakrow was at a meeting which was important enough to miss Walsh’s funeral. When the ceremony ended, stone-faced, Mrs.Diakrow stepped into her limo which was to take her to a meeting leagues away. Nobody will ever know why he was hated and ignored by his (so called) parents.

When you first met Walsh, you’ll never guess the kid was on drugs. He was on a lot of drugs ranging from ecstasy to cocaine. The first puff of smoke and sting of drugs were experienced at the naïve age of ten. The same age when he was “gifted ”this damn house to live in. Our saying was “A shot a day keeps the sadness away” which worked wonders in Walsh’s opinion. I have been living with him since we were both ten years old and I see to it that he doesn’t smoke more than four cigars a day and takes no more than three shots a week. Even in his university he was known for his craziness during parties and during one such party in his third semester at university he fathered his first child.

The girl went for termination of the fetus that very moment. It is after that incident that I accompanied him to every party so as to keep an eye on him to make sure he didn’t go too crazy due to his tequila shots. One night we were walking home through a forest after a crazy party when my eyes caught the sights of a little girl playing with what looked like a grenade. I immediately put my drunk friend against a strong tree and ran towards the little girl. She looked about eight years old, and she was dressed in a very simple floral frock accompanied by a glass bangle around her left wrist. An innocent smile spread across her face as she threw the grenade high into the air and caught it . Due to her bare feet and dirty hair, I assumed she must have wandered into the forest while playing near her house in a slum nearby. I cautiously caught the grenade out of the air and immediately dismantled the bomb inside without letting it burst. The little girl had started crying and it took me about five minutes to calm and console her. Later on, I convinced her to walk home while I looked for my drunk friend.

I found Walsh after an hour of searching near the edge of the river for a while. He was mumbling something. Once I lifted him on my back (as though I was giving him piggyback ride), he spoke - “Ned, I think I just saw a horror movie,” Amused, I asked,” What makes you think that?” “When I was tumbling from the edge of the road to the bank, I saw three men threatening a couple. As you know, I’m a kind person so, I tried to break my fall to help them but by the time I reached..” He started sobbing like a child who had just watched ‘Nightmare on Elm Street’. “Complete your sentence Wal!” I urged. “Ned. Ned. By the time I reached...the couple was lying dead!” The sobbing continued for another half an hour until he fell asleep. Once everything was settled, we reached home and I threw him on his bed, wrapped him up in a cosy blanket with a paper bag kept next to him (just in case he needed to throw up) and headed to my room. I just thought about everything that had happened that night and decided we would just forget about murder as I didn’t want Walsh to get involved in any of it.

Next morning, Walsh went to college after spending half an hour on my bed, explaining how much he loved me for carrying him back home. Once he left, I thought to myself, “He doesn’t remember anything about the murder” and smiled. That evening, when I returned with fresh groceries, I found Walsh hanging from the fan in his room. The amount of pain and fierce love I felt at that moment was inexplicable and incomparable.

I called up his parents, pretending to be a neighbour, and informed them of their son’s death. That day, I took everything that Walsh had a place in his heart for and left to the roads. Now I have returned after two weeks to secretly attend his grand funeral. Just as I was about to leave Walsh’s old bedroom I saw something move in the mirror. When I went and stood in front of it, instead of spotting get my reflection, I saw Walsh . But he wasn’t just Walsh. He had a deep imprint of a tightrope around his neck and looked as though he hadn’t slept for days. A few moments later he raised a bloody finger towards me and said the three words I’ve been hiding from for a long time. “It was you.” When I looked away, Walsh was gone and the next moment I was staring at myself being crushed under the mountain of guilt. Every sin committed by me reappeared in front of me. My father’s murder, the dead couple, the poor little girl, Walsh’s happy face while I gave him a shot of poison instead of ecstasy that morning, my blood brother’s unconscious body as it hung from the fan. As I rushed out of the house it was all I could think of. With every blink of my eye resurfaced the memory of hanging Walsh. All I ever said after that was,”I didn’t do it. I didn’t want to kill you. I didn’t do it. I didn’t want to kill you.”