Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

Eighteen

*Note: This is a fictional story inspired by the prompt.*

For what must have been the hundredth time, I imagined his eyes. I like to think they would have been brown. Not the piercing blue or cool, glimmering green of the princes and millionaires that filled my fantasies, but an ordinary brown. Except they wouldn't have been ordinary at all. Filled with kindness, warmth and understand, the brown would be transformed into something spectacular. Something rich and deep. The kind of eyes you could lose yourself in, spend the whole day looking at.

I think about what he must have been like. Shy? Or perhaps boisterous, making fast friends wherever he went? Maybe a combination of the two: an introvert at heart who everyone loved. Would he have liked me? Would I have even liked him? What did he like to do? Was he a reader? A football player? I like to think he was a cinephile. He told everyone he wanted to be a doctor when he grew up, but secretly he saw himself as the next Ebert or Roeper.

I can't help my mind from filling with speculation. But truthfully, I have no idea what he looked like, acted like or even how he died. Yet it is only because of his heart that I'm alive today. He's a part of me, yet he's little more than a stranger. All I know of my savior are two thing, that he was a he, and his age: eighteen.

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