Eleanor Rigby

The weekends were always weird because I never got to see Eleanor Rigby on those days. It felt awkward when lunchtime would come and I would spend it at home, not visiting her. Mondays always excited me because those were the days when I would go back and see the eccentric Eleanor Rigby. She was lonely, but she seemed content with it. She was lonely, but somehow I was always there with her. I always wanted to know if she knew that I examined her like a piece of artwork that should only be displayed.

And that questions adheres stronger now, especially after that fateful Monday in mid-March. I had woken up knowing that the day would be different. I couldn’t place my finger on it but once I got to my bench in front of St. Patrick’s Cathedral I knew that it was my connection with her that made me question my actions all day.

She sat there, looking scared and timid. Her eyes never lied about her emotions and today it was no different. I felt my own body tense up as I looked at her facial expression. She was always so happy, so eccentric, as if nothing mattered in the world. But today, Eleanor Rigby looked as if her whole world was torn away from her.

I had wondered what it is that made her look like a helpless child, but my question was quickly answered as I heard a gun shot go off. I watched as the people around me started screaming and running away and trying to find cover. There was fear not only in Eleanor Rigby but also in every single person that was around St. Patrick’s Cathedral.

But I just sat there and listened to the mayhem as I watched her. She had my undivided attention, just like she did every single day that I saw her. I did not fear the gunman for my own sake; I knew that he wouldn’t hurt me. But as he approached Eleanor Rigby my heart rate sped up and my breath became hitched in the back of my throat. All rational thought disappeared from my head as I watched him drag her towards the door of the church.

I watched as he pulled the gun to her head and words fell past his lips that I could not comprehend. All I could see was the panic in her face and my thoughts yelling at me to save the woman that meant more to me then she would ever know.

I tried to pull my body up from the bench, I tried to run there and save her so she could continue living and continue tantalizing my mind; but something was stopping me. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t think, all I could do was sit there and watch as he pulled the trigger of his gun.

Everything slowed down for me; the entire world seemed to be at a standstill. I watched as the bullet slowly entered her head and went straight through to her brain. I watched as her eyes began to drain the color out of them and I watched as the life began to slowly disappear from her pale white face. He let go of her body and he let it fall limp at the entrance of the church.

There was so much that I wanted to do for her. I ached to let her know how much it is that she had inspired me and how much she taught me from afar. In a way I had admired all those years that I had sat there and watched her from a distance. I wanted to know… no I needed to know if she had ever noticed me. How ironic it all was that she was to die at a church. But as I sat there and watched her spiritless body on the floor I learned something.

Eleanor Rigby was never alone because I was always there with her in spirit.