Ava Monologue

The old man lifted his head so that the glare was in his eyes. The tulips were blossoming, the grass a luscious, vivid green. His granddaughter Ava frolicked through the garden, all alone, yet still bursting at the seams with pure elation and contentment. He was grateful that autumn had not yet dawned. For a moment, happiness filled the old man’s mind. He lowered his head. Once again, he remembered.

A flush of anger asphyxiated him in that moment. All of these years had passed and he was still here, anchored to the earth with nothing but the desperate desire to leave. Ava waved from the bright side of the dirt-encrusted window, and as quickly as it came, the anger passed.

Eventually, the sun set, meaning only one thing. It was time to fight

the battle against sleep; but he was too old and frail to win. The nightmares overcame him almost instantly. It was the same one as every other night. The warped voices of those he knew best knocking his door down in a verbal barrage, confiscating the air from his lungs.
‘Selfish, weak!’
‘What a dishonour to know you, let alone be your relative!’
‘It was all your fault.’
‘What have you turned into?’
The images came flashing before his tear-filled eyes.

The day he joined the bikie gang. The day that marked his 30th year of service. And the day he dismissively flicked his hand when the rivals threatened to kill.

That was the day he helplessly watched his wife, daughter and her husband taken at the hands of the foe.

That was the day that the three gunshot blows became his own shadow.

He awoke to the sun peeping over the horizon and through the dusty wooden blinds. The sudden brightness startled him. He took a breath, lifted his head, and gently observed the mystifying beauty of the landscape. But he lowered his head. Once again, he remembered.

Today was the day. He could feel it. His body was decrepit, but his mind had never been stronger. The river would be adequate. His fragile bones creaked as he pulled himself out of the armchair, his bare feet leaving marks in the morning dew. The river was no more than one hundred metres away, but the journey lasted a lifetime. His head drooped morosely, staring at his feet as he walked.

He reached the river bank. Never before had he felt so ready. He lifted his head, eyes glowering with

determination.
‘Grandpa! I found a necklace in the sand!’
A wondrous smile lit Ava’s face at the sight of the rusty silver chain and locket.
The old man’s lips drew taut. It was his fault this girl was an orphan. His own carelessness, stupidity, cowardice. The smile on Ava’s face vanished, immediately replaced by an expression of sincere angst.
‘You weren’t going to get in the river, were you, Grandpa? You always told me the currents were too rough to swim in.’ Ava raised an eyebrow. He realised. He cared about Ava, and Ava cared about him. They had nothing but each other.
‘And anyway, you promised that you would build that dollhouse with me this morning! Mummy always used to say that promises can’t be broken.’ Ava continued, in an admonishing tone
The mention of ‘Mummy’ would normally have elicited a sensation akin to a dagger through his frail heart. But this time, he could feel his mindset shifting. Years of guilt and pain teetered in those moments of perplexity. He let go of the past. He could still make something of himself. And he had to, for the sake of Ava.
The old man’s frown lifted, albeit sluggishly, into a smile. Ava held the key to a part of her Grandpa’s mind. It was about the future.
The little girl took the old man’s hand in a strong grip and together, they marched to the tool shed.