Trigger Warning: graphic mentions of death and suicide
I found her body on the football pitch. It was ironic, she hated football. She always said it was the most pointless thing ever created. Well, that and ‘Twilight’, which was also ironic because she looked like a vampire when I found her. She was so pale, so lifeless, so dead. I knew I even reached her body. Her blood could be smelt from fifty feet away. The scent burned my nostrils. Never in my life have I ever had a problem with blood but on that night, in that moment, I physically gagged. It was so strong. It was assaulting me, teasing me, telling me that she was gone. She was dead.
Gingerly, I advance towards her body, knowing that when I saw her, my world would implode.
A sharp, bitter gust of wind hit me as I walked. Usually, I hated the cold, it seemed to always cost more than it was worth. It made everyone miserable. It made me miserable. But, on that day, the cold and the wind, brought an unusual sense of comfort. It was strange, normally the only thing that could comfort me was her. She was my rock. But now she was gone. I think that, maybe, looking back at it now, I had already accepted that she was dead. Maybe. Even if that reality was the hardest thing I had ever had to face in my short life of fifteen years. Maybe, that’s why it held a sense of comfort. The cold, like me in that moment, is numb.
Suddenly, I stopped dead in my tracks. This was wrong. Everything was wrong and I couldn’t... I couldn’t get any closer to her. I couldn’t…see… her like that. She was my world, and now my world had stopped spinning. I would never see her bright, dazzling smile or watch her topaz orbs light up as she saw my face again. I would never hear her infectious laugh or catch a whiff of her again: vanilla – from her favourite shampoo that she invariably used; strawberries – from the hand sanitiser that she used at least ten times a day- and old books – from her job at the library and the piles of books that she kept in her bedroom. I would never taste her lips on mine or tell her I love her. Loved. Past tense. I loved her.
A strange taste then filled my mouth, salt and sadness. Tears. I was crying. It was something that I hadn’t experienced since I was a young boy. Not since the last breath left my mother’s blue lips as she lost her three year-long battle with cancer. My father, embittered by her death, beat me black and blue to remind me that boy never cry.
I guess that it was almost funny. She always did that. She always made me experience new things, made me feel new things. Joy. Devastation. Love. I kind of hated her for it, for making me experience these emotions. For making me have hope. She made me love her. She made my life matter again. She made me feel like I had some sort of importance. Then she ripped all of that away. She was the only person who truly mattered to me and then she left, just like everyone else. She left me. Me. I thought I was important to her. I thought that I mattered. I thought that she loved me too.
But no. I was wrong. Obviously. If everything I believed was true, she’d still be here. She wouldn’t have taken her own life. She couldn’t. She just couldn’t. She just…
She was lying in a pool of her own blood. The scarlet liquid was all over her. It was all around her. The mucus green pitch was stained by the putrid substance. It was everywhere and somehow; it had formed a halo around her head. It was almost funny; I always called her my angel. My saving grace.
Oh God. Oh, dear God. Her wrists. The nauseating stuff was coming from her wrists. I had to stop the bleeding. I pressed my palms onto each of her wrists with all the strength I could muster, praying to anyone and everyone that it would help. That I could somehow save her. It had to work. It had to.
But the voice in my head screamed the truth. I couldn’t save her. She was already gone. She was already dead. Her non-existent breaths deafened me. The sound was too much. It was too overwhelming. I had to get away from her. But I couldn’t bear to move away from her. Her eyes were staring straight into my mud brown ones. Yet, they were not her eyes. They were lifeless and full of pain. She was always happy, always full of life. It couldn’t be her, but it had to be. No one else had those eyes. No one, but her.
I could feel the tears streaming down my face. I didn’t care. I couldn’t care. She was dead. She still had a hint of her scent. But it wasn’t her natural aroma. It had been defiled by that stench. The once comforting scent was now toxic. It was pillaging all of the beautiful memories I once had of her. They were all gone. All because she was gone. The proof of which was all over my body, burning my skin, deafening my ears, and blinding my eyes.
'Son! Son, get away from the body.' A voice roared.
'She’s dead. She committed suicide.' I whispered to myself. A firm hand was then placed on me.
'I know, Connor.' The voice replied.
'Emelia’s dead.'
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