Here's my alibi...

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.