Birdie
Day Nineteen
Alison used to smoke three cigarettes before bedtime each night. And I sit, right now, with her last pack of cigarettes in my hand clutching them tighter than I have held anything in a long time, and that means something important, what I am not sure, but something important nonetheless. I want to reach in and produce one of the cancer sticks and suck on it until my lungs are black with tar but I don’t.
I don’t smoke, she did.
She did everything, I don’t. Music is playing from her iPod and I am listening to her music from boys in bands that wore tight shirts and have synchronised dances. Two months ago I would have never been caught listening to this but now laying in the exact spot she was found I find myself seeking comfort in the music she loved so much.
I am not trying to be her, no I would never want to be her, she was broken beyond repair. I am just trying to remember her. It’s hard to remember her when every day I realise I am losing more and more of her. Her death was one thing but now each time I don’t say her name aloud I feel like I am losing her all over again, and it hurts more than words can explain. I reach out on the carpet and hold threads in my fingers pulling until I feel the give of the fabric beneath me. I want to rip up all this carpet until there is nothing but floor left beneath because she died here on this carpet with it between her fingers and toes.
I feel unwaveringly sad and desperate so I look at the clock on my bedside table, it is four am and in three hours I need to get up and get ready for school. I sigh and try to focus on falling asleep here on the ground. I use a trick I learnt in therapy a few days ago about focusing on each individual part of your body and relaxing it, it didn’t work then and it doesn’t work now.
I am awake and it is 4.01 am, I am still counting. I thought for sure by now I would have stopped, it has nearly been a month but every minute, every second that passes is stuck in my head reminding me of how long it has been since I have seen the beautiful girl with the broken heart.
4.02 am comes and goes and I am still awake, still stuck in the world with thoughts that are too real and far too painful. My parents are in bed asleep down the hall and I want to crawl into their bed like I did as a child during thunderstorms but I know I can’t. I am too old and far too sad.
I close my eyes and lick my lips focusing on the hues of colours beneath my eyelids, a vibrant blue flashes in front of me and for a second I see her, blonde hair, blue eyes and all. I reach out, tears stinging my eyelids, for her but she isn’t really here and I am left gasping at air. I feel sick and rush from the floor where she died to my bathroom, the one we used to share and throw up in the toilet. I run a bath and take a few sleeping pills hoping to drown my sadness and self in the warm water.
It is 5 am, when I exit the warm bath the water has turned sour and cold. My hands and feet are pruny, and I am still heartbroken. I want to whisper her name a thousand times but no matter how I try the words won’t come, it is like I have forgotten how to talk, forgotten to how to do something as natural as breathing.
Alison, I think with a tired heart and head, please come back. I fall asleep at 5.06 am and dream of the beautiful girl with the broken heart.
I don’t smoke, she did.
She did everything, I don’t. Music is playing from her iPod and I am listening to her music from boys in bands that wore tight shirts and have synchronised dances. Two months ago I would have never been caught listening to this but now laying in the exact spot she was found I find myself seeking comfort in the music she loved so much.
I am not trying to be her, no I would never want to be her, she was broken beyond repair. I am just trying to remember her. It’s hard to remember her when every day I realise I am losing more and more of her. Her death was one thing but now each time I don’t say her name aloud I feel like I am losing her all over again, and it hurts more than words can explain. I reach out on the carpet and hold threads in my fingers pulling until I feel the give of the fabric beneath me. I want to rip up all this carpet until there is nothing but floor left beneath because she died here on this carpet with it between her fingers and toes.
I feel unwaveringly sad and desperate so I look at the clock on my bedside table, it is four am and in three hours I need to get up and get ready for school. I sigh and try to focus on falling asleep here on the ground. I use a trick I learnt in therapy a few days ago about focusing on each individual part of your body and relaxing it, it didn’t work then and it doesn’t work now.
I am awake and it is 4.01 am, I am still counting. I thought for sure by now I would have stopped, it has nearly been a month but every minute, every second that passes is stuck in my head reminding me of how long it has been since I have seen the beautiful girl with the broken heart.
4.02 am comes and goes and I am still awake, still stuck in the world with thoughts that are too real and far too painful. My parents are in bed asleep down the hall and I want to crawl into their bed like I did as a child during thunderstorms but I know I can’t. I am too old and far too sad.
I close my eyes and lick my lips focusing on the hues of colours beneath my eyelids, a vibrant blue flashes in front of me and for a second I see her, blonde hair, blue eyes and all. I reach out, tears stinging my eyelids, for her but she isn’t really here and I am left gasping at air. I feel sick and rush from the floor where she died to my bathroom, the one we used to share and throw up in the toilet. I run a bath and take a few sleeping pills hoping to drown my sadness and self in the warm water.
It is 5 am, when I exit the warm bath the water has turned sour and cold. My hands and feet are pruny, and I am still heartbroken. I want to whisper her name a thousand times but no matter how I try the words won’t come, it is like I have forgotten how to talk, forgotten to how to do something as natural as breathing.
Alison, I think with a tired heart and head, please come back. I fall asleep at 5.06 am and dream of the beautiful girl with the broken heart.