Early Mourning
Let Me Live
I woke up screaming.
It was the fifth night this week it had been like this. I hadn’t been able to sleep through the night for five nights straight. I tried so hard to sleep, I really did, but every time my eyes would shut, I was haunted; haunted by my very own memories.
Memories of her.
Her long, dark beautiful hair, her golden-green eyes, her soft, ivory skin, those pale peach lips that I longed to kiss just one more time.
It devastated me to have to face the reality that I would never be able to touch her soft curls as she lay beside me, or smell her perfume lingering on her skin as she reached in to press those soft lips to mine. To feel her silky skin as I held her close on those cool, starlit summer nights that she loved so much.
It felt like someone had taken my insides and ripped them out. It was painful, God, so painful, but so empty, too.
I sat upright in my bed trying to fight the uncontrollable shaking that had seemed to overtake my body. I was drenched in a cold sweat; I could feel it making my T-shirt stick uncomfortably to my chest and back, but I honestly didn’t care. My mind was only focused on one thing - it was like a vortex, sucking me in, not offering any release. I was absolutely exhausted, the lack of sleep and ever-present sadness sucking the energy out of me. Oh, how I wished for the sweet solace of sleep, where at least in my dreams I could hear her voice again. I tried to calm myself down, taking in deep breaths, trying to recall the soothing sound of her voice to lull me back to sleep.
Her voice.
I stopped, heart racing, as I came to a sudden, terrifying realization. I could not recall the sound of her voice.
With a sudden gasp, trying to get my racing heart and brain oxygen, I leaped out of bed, staggering around my moonlit room. How could I not remember her voice? That clear, musical tone that she used when she spoke, that high, tinkling laugh, that soft, velvet murmur when she whispered, “I love you…”
It was gone.
I felt the tears already hot and flowing down my cheeks. I couldn’t breathe; I felt like I had just been punched in the gut by my own realization. I was ashamed of myself, absolutely ashamed. How could I forget already?
With a cry of frustration, anger, self-pity, and sadness, I threw myself from the bed and scrambled over to the dresser next to the opposite side of the bed. I yanked open the top drawer and saw a glimmer of silver in the starlight, and I made a grab for it.
The hard metal felt cold and harsh against my fingertips. I felt the smooth dips and twists and creases in the surface as I fumbled around for the plastic-covered handle. I finally felt the depressions where my fingers fit snugly into, and the cold, delicate curvature of the trigger.
I pressed the barrel up to the bone inbetween my eyes so hard I thought it would leave an imprint in the skin, but at this point, I really did not care. I couldn’t bear to be alone, without her. I wanted to see her again. I wanted to hear her voice. I wanted to see her smile. I wanted to kiss her goodnight; every night.
I’ll see you soon.
With one last gasp through a tear-choked sob, I pressed my finger to the trigger, my eyes filling with tears. I looked up to the nightstand, searching for one last final good memory to see - a picture of us, smiling, happy, together. The moonlight shined off of the glass frame, reflecting the stars that she loved so much.
I hesitated for a moment, thinking.
The stars.
Those were her favorite things about this world. I remember spending countless nights outside with her, just lying on the grass, looking up at the stars, talking about anything and everything. I’d always catch her gazing out of the bedroom window at them when she couldn’t sleep at night, or staring up into the night sky whenever it got dark. She’d always pick one to make a wish on every night, always the first one to catch her eye, and make it “her star” of that night.
She told me the reason she always liked looking at them so much was because she wanted to be like them - everlasting, always shining, even when surrounded in pitch black. “And they’re just so beautiful,” she would say.
“But you’re even more beautiful than the brightest one,” I’d always whisper back.
With a dull clunk, the gun slipped from inbetween my fingers as I stood up slowly, staring out the window. I made my way over and pushed open the glass, letting in the cool summer breeze. I kneeled down in front of it and rested my head on the sill, gazing upward.
“You’re still prettier, even now,” I whispered, knowing full well she couldn’t hear, nor see me. But, I hoped that wherever she was, she could still see those beautiful night stars just as I saw them now, and maybe, just maybe, we could spend another night gazing up at them together.
It was the fifth night this week it had been like this. I hadn’t been able to sleep through the night for five nights straight. I tried so hard to sleep, I really did, but every time my eyes would shut, I was haunted; haunted by my very own memories.
Memories of her.
Her long, dark beautiful hair, her golden-green eyes, her soft, ivory skin, those pale peach lips that I longed to kiss just one more time.
It devastated me to have to face the reality that I would never be able to touch her soft curls as she lay beside me, or smell her perfume lingering on her skin as she reached in to press those soft lips to mine. To feel her silky skin as I held her close on those cool, starlit summer nights that she loved so much.
It felt like someone had taken my insides and ripped them out. It was painful, God, so painful, but so empty, too.
I sat upright in my bed trying to fight the uncontrollable shaking that had seemed to overtake my body. I was drenched in a cold sweat; I could feel it making my T-shirt stick uncomfortably to my chest and back, but I honestly didn’t care. My mind was only focused on one thing - it was like a vortex, sucking me in, not offering any release. I was absolutely exhausted, the lack of sleep and ever-present sadness sucking the energy out of me. Oh, how I wished for the sweet solace of sleep, where at least in my dreams I could hear her voice again. I tried to calm myself down, taking in deep breaths, trying to recall the soothing sound of her voice to lull me back to sleep.
Her voice.
I stopped, heart racing, as I came to a sudden, terrifying realization. I could not recall the sound of her voice.
With a sudden gasp, trying to get my racing heart and brain oxygen, I leaped out of bed, staggering around my moonlit room. How could I not remember her voice? That clear, musical tone that she used when she spoke, that high, tinkling laugh, that soft, velvet murmur when she whispered, “I love you…”
It was gone.
I felt the tears already hot and flowing down my cheeks. I couldn’t breathe; I felt like I had just been punched in the gut by my own realization. I was ashamed of myself, absolutely ashamed. How could I forget already?
With a cry of frustration, anger, self-pity, and sadness, I threw myself from the bed and scrambled over to the dresser next to the opposite side of the bed. I yanked open the top drawer and saw a glimmer of silver in the starlight, and I made a grab for it.
The hard metal felt cold and harsh against my fingertips. I felt the smooth dips and twists and creases in the surface as I fumbled around for the plastic-covered handle. I finally felt the depressions where my fingers fit snugly into, and the cold, delicate curvature of the trigger.
I pressed the barrel up to the bone inbetween my eyes so hard I thought it would leave an imprint in the skin, but at this point, I really did not care. I couldn’t bear to be alone, without her. I wanted to see her again. I wanted to hear her voice. I wanted to see her smile. I wanted to kiss her goodnight; every night.
I’ll see you soon.
With one last gasp through a tear-choked sob, I pressed my finger to the trigger, my eyes filling with tears. I looked up to the nightstand, searching for one last final good memory to see - a picture of us, smiling, happy, together. The moonlight shined off of the glass frame, reflecting the stars that she loved so much.
I hesitated for a moment, thinking.
The stars.
Those were her favorite things about this world. I remember spending countless nights outside with her, just lying on the grass, looking up at the stars, talking about anything and everything. I’d always catch her gazing out of the bedroom window at them when she couldn’t sleep at night, or staring up into the night sky whenever it got dark. She’d always pick one to make a wish on every night, always the first one to catch her eye, and make it “her star” of that night.
She told me the reason she always liked looking at them so much was because she wanted to be like them - everlasting, always shining, even when surrounded in pitch black. “And they’re just so beautiful,” she would say.
“But you’re even more beautiful than the brightest one,” I’d always whisper back.
With a dull clunk, the gun slipped from inbetween my fingers as I stood up slowly, staring out the window. I made my way over and pushed open the glass, letting in the cool summer breeze. I kneeled down in front of it and rested my head on the sill, gazing upward.
“You’re still prettier, even now,” I whispered, knowing full well she couldn’t hear, nor see me. But, I hoped that wherever she was, she could still see those beautiful night stars just as I saw them now, and maybe, just maybe, we could spend another night gazing up at them together.