Cinnamon

By Skyla Four

Content Warning: Death and PTSD

Grief: the word was too short to describe how it felt to lose someone who was a part of you. A cool breeze sent shivers down his spine as he wrapped his jacket tighter around his body. 314 days ago, he had walked the same exact steps, a genuine smile plastered across his face, his hand tightly grasping theirs. Walking the same steps they had once walked was now only painful, a silent reminder that they were no longer here to step beside him. The birds chirped their joyful tunes, all flying back to meet with their families, and he could only scoff at the jealousy aching in his heart. He crushed the leaves, along with his feelings, and buried them deep below the autumnal soil.

People didn’t realize that he was lost too. They didn’t look past his surface smile, where behind it he was gasping for air, drowning in his saltwater. ‘Life isn’t fair,’ they snarled at him as he shrieked the kitchen down, overcome with his sorrow. Because he died in every way he could’ve except physically. For the first week, he screamed hysterically, and for the next month, he sobbed, refusing to get up, refusing to move. His senses were numbed and overpowered with his heart-wrenching despair. For the first 3 months, nothing changed. Still, he remained a fractured shell of who he once was. Medication after medication was prescribed to him that he either refused or disposed of; he couldn’t stand the thought of temporarily drugging himself to feel a sense of artificial happiness. And soon those 3 months turned into 11 months and 11 days. During those 11 months and 11 days, he was able to construct a wavering mask that portrayed a slight display of emotions enough to please his parents. And so, then the medication stopped.

As he crouched down in front of the stone, his fingers traced the infinite lines of his palm, wishing he could connect his to theirs again. They had fitted together perfectly, delicately, as if they’d been born to intertwine together. How could God be so cruel? How could God give him the most beautiful person only to snatch them away as if they never existed to begin with?

A cat scurried behind him, sending snapped twigs brushing through the air when its feet came into contact with them. Slowly it stopped, tilting its head in a confused manner, probably asking what a teenage boy was doing sitting in front of a piece of stone. Cautiously, the tabby made its way over, giving a soothing purr as he ran his fingers through her fur gently stroking it. As his fingertips reached its neck, something cool and solid hit against him. Tracing his fingers against the silver, metal collar, his eyes read one word: Cinnamon. Forgotten for a minute, his suffering reclaimed his lungs, swelling them until he felt suffocated, trapped, and choked. The only feeling registering through his nerve cells was smothered anguish. Cinnamon was always their scent.

Most nights after school, they would come round to his. It would always begin with unfulfilled promises of homework and studying which quickly turned into exhausted kisses and him leaning his head against their shoulder, softly closing his eyes with his lasting memory of a muffled ‘I love you.’ Neither could function without the other. Every awakened minute of their time was spent together, and he was only now concluding how meaningful their quality time was. Like a ticking time bomb, there were only so many weeks, days, and minutes they could have with each other before it all blew up. Or in this case, crashed together. Eating him up alive was the guilt he felt, and no matter how many times they all told him it wasn’t he who was at fault, he continued to believe it was him to blame. If he had just walked home with them instead of watching them get on the stupid bus, maybe they would still be breathing. Maybe their heartbeats could synchronize like they had before. The majority of people used AD and BC, but for him, there was before the accident and after the accident. Everything changed after that day. Time continued moving, but his world died when they did.

He muttered the cat’s name under his breath in agony, however, the tabby did not flinch. Instead, it began consistently wailing, calling to him. A cry for help? Or was this another one of his hallucinations?

Abruptly, it began pacing, still crying, but now circling him in all directions observing his stifled sobs. Discomforted, he brushed it away and it stopped, perching itself in front of the stone as if to mock him and show him just how much he’d lost. He told himself he was hallucinating as the tabby pleaded out to him once more. Most likely, his mind was feeding off his misery, engulfing his senses in heartache. A slim, pained voice in his chest wanted to believe it was real.

It had been their lifelong dream to own a kitten, specifically one with stripes curving graciously across its back. One with an ashy coat and gleaming, hazel eyes. For hours, the two of them would discuss life after high school, living in their dream cottage without a care in the world. With every dream and idea, they’d included each other and most importantly the tabby cat. Now that they were gone, the former wishes had been diminished. The thought of him continuing what they had started only made him mourn more what he had lost.

But now here it was, the tabby cat Cinnamon, giving him a blank stare to bring him back from his disassociating brain. Delusional he was to believe this was real. The doctors all told him, with fake sympathy, that this was a symptom, seeing them in everything. Traumatised. Grief-stricken. Crazy. They told him he was suffering. PTSD was what they called it. Thinking he was anything, but suffering was foolish and futile. Since they’d been gone, his world had become isolated, erasing the traces and memories of them. First, their place at school had been taken, stolen, and their name was removed from every register, seating plan, document. Everything was burned, cremated into floating ashes disintegrating like their rotting corpse below the solid ground where he sat. With loss, the sympathy only lasts so long. Eventually, the memorial was gone, and teachers viewed it as a waste of space and effort. And a new student sat at their desk, in their chair, replacing them.

Still purring, Cinnamon, which he was now referring to the cat as, plonked itself onto his lap, nestling its head against his jacket, consoling his freely flowing tears. His heart longed for their ghostly hand to cup his cheek, caress his skin, and show him what it felt like to love. Love: a strong word that now felt unsettling to use for anyone but them. Torturingly, he would never belong to someone in the same way he had belonged to them. Love: now something he refused to feel. Attachment always led to pain and distress.

His heartbeat quieted as the cat began to leave; he’d forgotten to ask it the most important question. They’d told him that his mind was untrustworthy, dangerous, and deceiving. As much as he wanted to question Cinnamon, he couldn’t bear the disappointment he would feel. So, he smiled sombrely at Cinnamon and turned away from the stone. As he tentatively closed his eyes, no sounds of paws tiptoeing away could be heard.

Their scent of cinnamon still lingered in the jacket. Nothing or nobody would ever convince him to wash it, because then he’d be washing away the lasting memories of them. Somewhere in between then and now, their face turned into photographs, their voice turned into videos, and their clothes turned into keepsakes.

“Happy birthday Jimmy,” he whispered, tightening the cinnamon-scented jacket around his body once more.

–

Skyla Four is a teen author from the UK who has enjoyed writing since a young age. She posts various content on her Instagram (skyl4edits), Wattpad, and AO3 (skyl4writes). Her current favourite genre of fiction is mystery and she thoroughly enjoys books by Holly Jackson, Karen McManus, and Sophie Cleverly.