The Most Prized Possession

By Astrid King, age 14

Today I was given the question: 'What is your most prized possession?'

In mere moments, the strangers' voices beside me crescendoed, with ripples of confusion sent through the crowd. It caused quite a commotion throughout this small room we were packed in, with slight hints of inquisitiveness. After a minute, the headmistress-whom had bestowed this burdening question upon us- went around in an intimidating manner asking anyone what their chosen object was. It was an unusual question for a college induction day, especially for one of the most prestigious. However, this question was a bear trap for amateurish and foolish answers, and I would not fall into it.

Others answered in materialistic terms, like their phones, clothes and cars. They attempted to lighten up the mood by naming one of those, but were soon silenced by judgemental looks saying, "they're not making it in. To call this a challenging school environment would be an understatement. I, on the other hand, thought deeply about this question because I considered my most prized possession, to also be the item of my bad luck. It was an antique Chinese Wood tortoise, every minute detail making it worthy of my bedroom podium, besides the fact that it brought me great misfortune. On a tragic note, my father died holding it in his hands. A letter was atop his limp body, saying that he wanted me to have it. Reluctant, I kept it. Over the course of a few months, my arm sprained badly in the middle of moving the tortoise, I had a major leg cramp during a rugby competition(I requested for the tortoise to be near me for *good luck'.), I often got splinters every time I held it- which was the least of what happened to me. It was these unusually random accidents that made me lose hope in it. For the coup de grace, I weirdly believed it caused my father's passing. Yet, it had stuck with me relentlessly throughout my entire life, always conveniently placed to watch my every laugh, scream and cry. I still felt this sense of attachment to it, its reminiscence of my late father tugging at my heartstrings. My sentimentality begged me to keep it, but every other day it sat quaintly in my bedroom was another day I could perhaps meet my demise. Much like my father. It was haunted, to say the least.

It was now my turn. Everyone jerked their head towards me, making me slightly hesitant to share my story. The question was asked once again, the headmistress eagerly awaiting my answer. Exhaling slowly, I began to narrate the story of the tortoise, originally bought by my grandfather at a flea market then somehow made into a family heirloom over the years. Snickers came from the background. Of course, I avoided the part of it making my life difficult, to appease the headmistress. The hardest thing to say was that it was a last gift from my father who had passed away eleven months ago. Talking about me and my father's connection to the tortoise, alleviated my discomfort of finally discussing it and overall made me feel unburdened. Afterwards, there were varied expressions among my peers, mostly consisting of pity or sympathy. Touching as it was, I didn't want to be pitied because of my story, so I ended it abruptly. Silence swallowed up the room, until I received a reply which I never thought possible. "That was lovely, Harris. I'm sure your father would be proud of your courage to tell his story." At the end, the headmistress gave a slight smile, one of acceptance. Everyone gasped, gaped and gawked; I was now superior to them. Unfortunately, their sorrowful expressions before soon turned to hatred. Once the headmistress let us go, the crowd dispersed, some forming groups and some staying in solitary. At this point, I had hoped to be alone. Unluckily, I was approached by a clique of girls, who had antagonising inquiries ending in 'so is your father actually dead, or was it a made-up sob story?' Ignoring their attempts to patronise me, I tried to find an opening to slip through so I could avoid another one-sided conversation like that. Hours which felt like days passed, and the induction day was finally over. Usually after this, some special students would be personally invited to attend the famous alumni soirée, making way for future connections and a good school life(if you actually passed the entrance exam). I doubted I was getting chosen. As always I'd blame the tortoise.

Returning home, my only thought was to rest; talking about my father was proving more difficult than I thought. I strode through my hallway, remembering the times we shared, a single tear running down my face. It was cold, cold like my father's dead body. Brushing away the morbid thoughts, I gazed at every nook and cranny I once played in as a child with a parent. My mother never talked to me anymore, with the rare exception being at one of my trips to the hospital. That was caused, I believe, by being in the tortoise's presence. That day I stupidly brought it with me to the study, to keep an eye on it when I practised for college exams. Periodically, I'd glance up from my work just to note down observations of it moving . Overworked, I began to feel lightheaded and I soon woke up in a hospital bed. Dazed, I felt tubes up my nose, repetitive beeping beside me, and the blurry hallucinations of the tortoise. The doctors insisted it was because of stress, but I knew it was the antique's doing. Every time I mentioned it, my mother acted bitterly towards me the rest of that day. She wasn't particularly superstitious, but when the conversation diverted to the tortoise, that was an entirely different story. Once upon a time, she encouraged my father to gift it to me because it was his father's last remaining possession. Before, she used to say that a tortoise represented endurance hence its strong shell. It could've made sense, I still survived and thrived even after my constant accidents and inconveniences. My father quite liked the idea, deciding to keep it forevermore. Eventually, came his departure from life. I think my mother blamed herself. Desperately, I tried thinking of positive thoughts, when the tortoise brought no bad luck and was only a token of the past. The short time in which I was nostalgic was halted by something: a shell-like silhouette. No. It couldn't be. Friday night I had definitely placed it on my bed. Edging closer, I had all the confirmation I needed. Alas, it was here, that wretched tortoise wriggled itself into my personal drama once again. If magic was real, I witnessed teleportation. Possibly, it was the embodiment of my father's ghost, haunting me by sabotaging my life one way or another. I decided not to think about it too much or the idea would begin to terrify me. Perched on the console table, was its long neck stretched out towards me in an almost demeaning way. Unsettled, I faced it the other way.

"Harris, did the induction day go well?"

Seeing my mother again was relieving, I needed some family to seek closure towards. In other words, she was asking if the headmistress favoured me. I nodded, she nearly expressed joy. Before she would hide in her chambers again, I needed to tell her something.

"It wasn't your fault… you know?" I uttered suddenly.

We shared that mother to son look, which felt like the stuff of movies. Glossy-eyed, she reached her hand out to hug me. I clutched her tightly, my strength fuelled by her love. From the corner of my eye, I saw the tortoise, facing towards me once again. As I've constantly mentioned, it places itself to watch my every laugh, scream and cry. For once, I ignored what witcheraft was behind it and enjoyed being with my mother again.

" I know," She replied solemnly, "your father gave you the tortoise as he believed it would truly help you endure anything, even his passing. And you have."

There was that word again: endure. Hearing it again from her, told me she was okay again, at peace with herself. On my forehead, she gave me a delicate kiss and swiftly glided away. We were talking again, and I would make sure we would never stay silent towards one another again. This was one relationship mended, now it was time to fix the one left fragmented for months. Thinking about my father, I decided to visit him which I hadn't done since the first month of his death. This time I brought the tortoise. Last time I went to the cemetery, I told him all the important events in my life, like I used to when I came home from school. Arriving there now, I trudged grievously to the gravestone. Sighing, I traced my fingers over his engraved name and knelt. From my back pocket, I took out a sheet of paper recounting my important moments thus far. Teary-eyed, I read from it, every word a challenge to get through without sobbing immediately. It was always strange how he said the tortoise was lucky. Leaving it at his grave would be better for me and him.

Muttering a range of jumbled prayers, I could feel an stabbing, icy sensation along my spine; I was being watched. My father did always warn me to be vigilant when alone. Cautious, I scanned the graveyard until I stopped at a figure - who was standing ominously in the distance. The fog proved to be a dramatic setting, the grey swirls in the sky called clouds beginning to unleash the most violent rainfall since my father's funeral. Darkness slowly began to envelop my surroundings, and the only part of the strange figure revealed were its glowing eyes. I felt them bore into me, as they advanced closer and closer. Should I have defended myself, or fled when I had the opportunity? No, I stood there silent, almost waiting for them to reach me. Out of the shadows, a man emerged, with his hand out to assure me he wasn't dangerous. Gasping nervously, we both exchanged awkward looks before he placed his hands on the gravestone. The man knew my father. It also seemed like he recognised the tortoise as his first uttering was in regard to it: a small chuckle.

"Your dad always hated that thing, swore to God it was unlucky." He murmured.

Incredulous, I glared at the tortoise. Why would my father intentionally give this bad luck totem to me? And why was I so easily trusting this man? As the man stepped forward, I jumped back. His eyes averted to the tortoise in my arms, and out of fear I gave it to him. Carefully, the man inspected it, knocking at its shell and flipping it around to check the bottom.

"There it is, the inscription."

What inscription?

"The one your dad marked in for you to read."

Overwhelmed by bewilderment, I continued staring numbly at the tortoise. A message was there all along, and I was too scared of the damned thing to even check. For a while, I had forgotten that a random stranger was talking to me, because of the fact that my father wanted to tell me something. It was through the object I tried to avoid ever since he died. Reading the inscription would solve my problems. Gulping, I took the tortoise from the man's hands, and saw the message in messy handwriting:

"To my son, who will retrieve this when I pass, may this grant you a balance in your life, wisdom, strength and most importantly endurance. Although some of my experiences could be considered unlucky, a good gesture of luck would soon come after it. My father told me that. When he died, I was distraught and blamed the tortoise, but days after, you were born. That was the happiest day of my life, this luck being more than a coincidence. So whatever happens, keep the tortoise and I am always with you, Harris."

Reading my father's message was an emotional experience, helping me understand why the tortoise mattered so much to him. It was the perfect message. About to thank the man, he draped a shawl over himself, nodding assertively and fading into the shadows. Like a guardian angel. Not in the literal sense, but my father was the tortoise, guiding me throughout my life. My original notion was that it was an object of bad luck rather than it being a beginning of a great start. If what my father and I thought as misfortune would come, good luck would come shortly. After all, I stayed grounded, alive and well. Like my mother said: the tortoise represented endurance. And I had the strength to endure anything. This antique I once called twisted, was my father's heart and soul. It was the perfection of imperfection, the good in the bad, the Yin and yang. I just had to be patient, when prosperity would come. Slumping beside my father's grave, I held the tortoise tight like I was embracing my father again.

A vibration came from my pocket, a phone notification. Probably another spam email, I thought. Checking through my mail, saw the words, "Congratulations', on the top of the screen. It was from the college. My heart thumping rapidly, I clicked on the message; it was an invitation to the soirée. It was the invitation that was opportunistic, one that I never would have gotten on my own. This was the first step to success, and I knew who or what to blame. Joyous, I turned to the tortoise facing towards me, its neck out enthusiastically, once again. I think I believe in magic.

Today I was given the question: "What is your most prized possession?'. My most prized possession is my antique Chinese Wood tortoise.