The day she died I
was here, at this same desk writing a letter to my grandparents. The
room was poorly lit and the paper was stained with ink and tears. I
was telling them how much I loved and cared for them. You may
think I'm crazy but I never meant to send that letter. The reason
why: my grandparents are dead. They died within hours of each other,
next to each other. One died of cancer, the other of despair. They
died two years ago but its only just dawned on me the hole they left
in my soul.
The day she died I
was drinking. Drinking out of disappoint of the ones around me. The
ones who left me waiting are now waiting for me. Its funny how the
world goes round and round, isn't it? Don't answers that. I
was drinking to forget or make everything clearer, I forget which.
Drinking to remember all those times I felt betrayed by the ones I
love. To remember: never let that happen again. How, you ask? But not
expecting anything.
The day she died I
was in Prague. Searching for myself inside its veins and wounds.
Searching for a man I once met in Madrid. Blowing bubble out of soap, which seemed to reflect scenes and flashbacks from his pumpy life.A boy who had been forced
into adulthood due to the knee-deep cracks on the yellow brick road.
Due to the prostitution of his country. Due to the capitalist
ass-holes that barked him out into the streets. Red-lit street of the
district.
The day she died it
was raining. And the boy in black who always sits outside my window
wasn't there. His longing stare wasn't there. His make-up stained
cheeks weren't there. The guy for whom he was waiting wasn't there.
There. In the house opposite mine. I never asked what the boy in
black waited for but I saw the way his body stiffened when the same
bike turned around the corner every night. Tearing his own life away
with each cigarette he smoked. On a warm summer evening, I sat next
to him. I asked for a cigarette and light. We sat in silence but at
that moment I felt very close to him. Closer than I had ever felt to
anyone. I felt it was mutual but maybe he is also the type who
doesn’t get close to anyone. Or maybe that half a cigarette he gave
me was for renting my door-step every night for the last three months.
The day she died I
did nothing. Nothing to prevent it. Nothing to avoid it. I just let
it happen. I could have been there. I could have helped her.
Physically, maybe not, but psychologically. Was is accidental? Was it
second-hand? I hate to believe it was herself. No. It couldn't be
herself. Not another one in my life who does this. The next one won't
get away. So much hate. So much hate. So. Much. Hate.
Depressing, I know.
But the day she died I died too. Every single cell in my body was
dead, inactive. I had shrunk to the size of a dark raisin. Full of
hate and bitterness. Why do the best ones go? Why do the worst ones
stay? Why do I stay? To listen to this shit on the radio, on the TV,
on the lawn of the world. The silver lining? This time there is none.
No one shed a tear for her death but no one wore a smile either.
This is my own writing but based on a stupid TV
series called, “How to get away with murder”, Peter Nowalk.
