Gone

she's dead and it's my fault

Dead. She’s dead. She’s gone. Her body left lifeless and it’s my fault. If I had whispered on the phone with her on that late night phone call longer, instead of telling her to go back to bed because the digital clock on my nightstand was blinking 2:30. If I had just talked to her until the sun started to peek out over the horizon instead of thinking nothing, and putting my head back down on that pillow and falling into restless dreams.

Before she hung up her voice strained as she told me she loved me, and in a sleepy haze I murmured the phrase back. I didn’t even think for a second that anything could be wrong. I wish I could change what I did. I wish I had said something more or tried to explain how much I needed her. How much I need her. I wish things were different. I could have made things different. Things could be different.

Everywhere I go her memory haunts me. My house, the car, school… the memory of her makes it hard to breathe. They, my parents, the school and my newfound therapist, thought that a week was enough time for me to ‘recover’ and ‘work through the pain’ and get back to school before I used up all my sick days. But all going back to school did was help reopen the wound. Having to see our friends and having to see the sympathetic glances from teachers and having to see the people whispering about her. Having to deal with the memories.

Every time I have to pass by the spot we met in that pink and beige tiled hallway it feels as if my chest is going to pop, my eyelids have to work in overtime to try and hold back the tirade of tears trying to force their way out. I had bought new shoes the day before we met, they were lace up rustic blue Vans with white polka dots, the bottoms of them were still slippery, not quite worn in yet, I lost my footing on the tile and careened into her. We both hit the floor. My skirt flew up and books and binders skewed themselves across the floor. I looked up apologetically at her and she just laughed, god i miss that beautiful laugh, I giggled out an apology and she helped me pick up my books and get sorted. We were both standing there awkwardly for a moment, unsure of what to say next, and I looked into her eyes, green blue with the unpredictable wildness and yet calm of the ocean.  In that moment she dropped her phone and we both went down to get it and ended up bumping heads. I know it’s cliche but it was the start of something.

The only thing that keeps me going these days is that she didn’t want me to stop like she did. She wanted me to get farther than her. She wanted me to be happier than her. I want to join her.  I miss her so much.

Right outside the school is where we kissed for the first time. I was stage crew for the play and she had tried out for the lead but only ended up being a background character. Her costume was the wrong size, the shirt sleeves went down to her elbows and the black fabric billowed out in the middle and shoulders. It made her look so tiny and silly. We were sitting and talking on the edge of the stage after practice. We were going to walk to my house and watch a movie after we had finished everything up.  In our conversation she said, Macbeth. The cursed play. General theater etiquette is that if you say Macbeth in the theater you have to go outside spin around three times and shout at the top of your lungs the foulest thing you can imagine. So said it right and I looked around then back at her and said you know where we are right? She nodded and smiled a little. I jumped off the stage and picked her up bride style. I took her outside and while she was in my arms spun around 3 times. When I stopped she yelled her name. I laughed at the joke. But now I understand that in her mind she was the foulest thing she could think of. I don't understand why. She was a goddess. While she was in my arms she kissed me. I was astonished. I put her down. Then kissed her back.  A moment of true passion. It was amazing. In that moment I knew I wanted to be hers and she knew she wanted to be mine.

We had the same lunch. After the day we bumped heads I sat next to her. I knew from that day that I wanted to be her best friend. She was my best friend. More than a best friend. She was happy a lot, or at least seemed it,and always wanted to make the people around her smile even if she wasn't okay. I thought she was always happy at least a little bit happy underneath all the pain in her eyes. I shouldn't have assumed. She wasn't always happy. There was one time after our kiss after once she had officially been my girlfriend for months that I was at her house. She was wearing dark purple long sleeves. I was wearing a t-shirt. We were in her backyard. On the swings. We were trying to grab hands as we swung. I missed her hand. I hit her wrist. She cried out in more pain than I expected from just a high five on the wrist. I immediately got off the swing and pulled up her sleeve to see if I had hurt her. She had cuts up her arm. She snatched her arm away and hastily pulled down her sleeve. I grabbed her other arm. It was the same. Neat lines of half-healed wounds. She started to cry. I didn’t know what to say. I brought her inside. I hoisted her up onto the counter so we were eye level. I took a sharpie and I drew a heart on one arm and then a heart on the other, carefully avoiding the cuts. She was sniffling now not looking at me. I asked her if she loved herself. She just looked down at her legs. she wouldn't meet my eyes. I told her that she needed to promise me that she would one day love herself but for now I would love her for her. She nodded. That was the only promise she ever broke. I guess that was the first time that I ever told her I loved her.

We fought. These memories are crisp and clear because we didn't fight often. One of the first times we fought was right here by this drinking fountain. She told me we should break up. I froze and asked her why, pain building in my chest. She said because she doesn't give me enough space. She was always worried about me and how she hoped I wasn't stuck in the relationship. She made sure I had plenty of time to hang out with her and to hang out with other friends. But sometimes I felt she gave me too much space. I wanted her close to me all the time. We argued a lot I realized she wanted more time alone. Not that she wanted me to have more time alone. She just wants breathing space. As soon as it came out like that I understood. So I stopped calling her every other day. I distanced myself to a place where she felt comfortable with me and I understood and accepted her needs.

I still can't believe it. That she's really gone. All these memories are too real for her to be gone. I don't think she was perfect. I love her but I don’t think she’s perfect. She had flaws. One night we were at my house after a dance at our friend's church. Our dresses were sticking to us in the humidity in the August air. I asked her what she thought the guy in the stand out one of a kind sparkly suit thought of everyone else. She told me that she believed that everyone judged people by their imperfections and flaws and never looked at what was perfect. I told her that wasn't true and your only judged when you're perfect and people are looking for imperfections. I see now that she was right. I see myself judge flaws and not even glance at how perfect someone could be. It hurts but I understand. I treasure everyone imperfections because they remind me of her.

Right here we would sit after school and talk. It's in the middle of the hallway. You are seen by anyone coming down by one of the most used hallways of the school. The thing that makes it special is this case with the lights. The lights shine in the right direction to make you glow if you're looking eye to eye with the person sitting down but it makes you insignificant and small to people coming down the hall. It's a special spot. We sat there often and make up stories about the people that passed down even if we knew them we would give them a new identity and have them do things they wouldn't normally do in real life. It hurts to remember. Even the sad memories I miss.

Her cat died once. She made the perfect grave. It was a beautiful grave. It was hard to look at because it was so cheerful with flowers and vines painted on and we were so sad. The sadness I felt for the cat is nothing compared to the pressing down overpowering waves of feeling I feel now. It hurts to think but I can't stop thinking of her.

I'm unsure if I miss the things we had already done or the things I would do with her in the future. Maybe a little bit of both. We were going to go to colleges that we're close to each other and live in a van together and travel the world. we weren't going settle down and build a family we were going to wander forever have no destination and we would never stay in one town for more than a week. I know our plans would work we could do it. picking up odd jobs here and there never really needing anything but each other. It was perfect.

How did we know that we loved each other? This was the first serious relationship either of us had been in. I felt a crazy kind of connection to her that was like a tingly feeling, you know that feeling what you take the first a bite of your favorite ice cream on a humid day? Like that sinking happiness, it feels like that feeling but multiplied by a hundred and without the cold ice cream in your mouth. It's amazing I liked that feeling but I don't want anyone else but her to bring that feeling to me. I don't feel it anymore. there's instead like and aftertaste of the ice cream and I can't get any more. It hurts.

It's now been a month since she's been gone. The sting is no longer as painful but more like a dull constant pounding. I got up in a new class. I tested out of my English class so I started a computer graphics class. I wish I hadn't. My teacher always forgets to lock his classroom door. We used to come in here and lean against the warm computers that sit under the tables. We would never say anything just sit and listen to the quiet buzz of the machinery. My class is always loud. The magic of this room has been taken by their vile mouths.

People always stare at me. I don't like it. They look at me like I'm a hurt thing that needs help. I don't need help. I don't need hugs. I don't need a shoulder to cry on, I just need her. I need her in my arms, need to feel her heartbeat under my sleeping head, I need to tell her I lover one more time. I need to just see her. Even if I can’t touch her or talk to her I need to know that she’s okay. I’m fine, she’s the one that’s dead.