When You Died

You were twenty when you died.

I remember how I found you, convulsing in the bathroom with the pill bottle clutched in your hand. I remember your last words to me, how you cried as you said them. A sob interrupted your words before you continued, voice wavering. I remember thinking that you were just as scared for your life as I was.

When I would be sad, you'd be there. You would hold me when I cried, rocking us back and forth on the bed, which was never made. Sometimes, you would sing me a song, strumming on your ukulele. The cheerful notes would slowly numb my sadness, a remedy like no other. If you asked anyone who knew us, they would say that you were the best thing to ever happen to a dumb ass like me. And they would be right.

The first time I met you, you were sitting on a park bench. You were there every day, always on time. You'd be there when the sun was high in the sky and when people were at their busiest. I still don't know to this day why you loved that so much. Maybe you just liked being by yourself, maybe you were there to people watch. Regardless, every time you were there, I'd feel a bit happier. When I finally got the courage to go up and talk to you, that was the day you weren't there. Maybe it was fate, because I met you a few days later in a busy coffee shop.

I didn't start to notice the scars until the first time we had sex. You were just as nervous as I was, and we both laughed when your head got stuck in your t-shirt. But then, I saw the marks left in your skin. The scars. I didn't ask, because it wasn't my business. I wish I had. Maybe I could have stopped you from killing yourself then.

When you were gone at work, sometimes I would find small love notes. Some were serious, others would have poems so ridiculous, I would laugh out loud long enough that my face began to hurt. Those were the best. I began sending similar ones back to you, hiding them in your pants for you to find while you were busy working at your shitty job.

After three months or so, I began feel your attitude changing. You got frustrated easily, and sometimes you'd be in a funk so bad, even sitting on our park bench wouldn't make you feel better. Our little letters became less and less frequent. The ukulele began to collect dust. I started to think it was me. I pulled away. I should have stayed. I was so scared you'd leave me though.

When I left after our horrible fight, I could hear you screaming for me from behind the door. I gritted my teeth and ignored you though, thinking that it was for the best. That you would find someone who could actually take care of you.

Slowly, I lost all contact from you. Your phone calls stopped and you left me alone. I even started dating around again, trying to fill the void you had given me. That was when it got the worst for you. I should have been there. Maybe I could have stopped you.

A month after our break up, you called me. I wasn't in a bad mood so I answered. Thank god I answered.

“Colette. I'm sorry.”

“Charlie, what's wrong?” I could hear that something was off in your voice. It wasn't the easy going tone I had grown to love.

“I wanted to apologize. You were right. I'm broken. I'm just a broken person who doesn't know how to solve his own issues.” That one had hurt. I had said that in my worst moment, something that I had regretted saying immediately after it escaped my lips. I had hoped you would forget it.

“Oh, Charlie. I was wrong. I'm sorry.”

“No, no. You left because you knew that you would be better off without me. I just wanted to call to...” When you didn't say anything, I assumed you had left.

“Charlie?”

“You were the best thing to ever happen to me.” That's when you started crying. “I love you, Colette.”

Tears that had been filling my eyes spilled over. “Where are you? I'm coming to get you.”

“Find someone better than me. You're worth it.”

Minutes later, I was at your apartment, holding the key I promised to myself I would never use again. I cried harder than I had ever cried, gut twisting into painful revulsion.

I twisted the bathtub's shower head on frantically, pulling your body into the tub with me. I didn't care that my mascara ran or that my hair was drenched.

Within moments you were dead. The guilt still weighs on me, even though it's been five years since you died. Sometimes I think of where you would be if you were still alive. Would you have a family? Would you still have the shitty job you hated?

I found out that you had been horribly abused by your foster parents at your funeral. I could have helped you through it. But I had been selfish.

And I hate myself every time I think about you. Our love letters, your ukulele. But worst of all, our bench on the same street where I live now.