Never Again

I knew what I was getting into when I befriended you; when I trusted you beyond compare and poured my heart and soul into you.

You knew what you were doing when you did the same to me, secrets and laughter spilling from your pale lips, your eyes twinkling in the sunlight as you stole a lick of my ice cream as we walked along the beach.

I just didn’t expect it to happen so soon, and for you to be gone just like that.

“You said his name in your sleep, again.”

You never liked my sister all that much, and in this moment I can see why. Those few words drove a dagger into my stomach, and it was my reply that twisted the blade.

“I know.”

She all but killed me when she asked the dreaded question; “did you dream of him?”

I burrowed my head into the pillow and wished for the umpteenth we didn’t share a room. Tears started to trickle down my cheeks and I heard the quiet padding of her feet on the carpet as she left, a rustling noise coming from her bed telling me that our small dog was still there. She had received her answer.

I was left alone for a few minutes, and I wished I could reach out and grab you, have you curl up in my lap and talk about the stars and other whimsical fantasies as I threaded my fingers through your hair. You’d hug me tightly before you left, with a small smile speaking eons of what you wanted to happen and conversation we would have had if only you’d been given more time. Time for you to fall in love and make mistakes and stay up late cramming before an exam worth half of your grade. Time for you to make three different desserts in one day and taste test them all.

Time that you should have been given instead of being rushed to hospital and dying at 3:56am while I was still sleeping peacefully, believing everything was fine, when you were only sixteen. Your parents hadn’t wanted to wake me – you had episodes like this at least six times a year. They hadn’t known it would be your last.

“You need to get up.” She had returned, steaming cup of coffee in hand. She placed it on my night stand, pulled back the covers and helped me to roll over and sit up. She brushed the tears trembling down my cheeks away with the pads of her long, skinny fingers, combing my fringe back from my face a few seconds later.

“Come on, you can do it.” She took my hands, took my coffee off of the night stand and placed it in one and held the other as I took a shaky sip. God, I love her. Thanking her as she left to allow me privacy to get dressed, I picked up the letter you had given me a few days before your departure.

You loved to write letters; you had big loopy handwriting and would quite often scribble things down on pieces of paper just to see how it would turn out. You’d noticed my love of your writing and begun to write me things. This one contained lyrics from a few of my favourite songs, a recipe that you’d attempted to make the other day and another half page filled with nonsense; thoughts you’d needed to scribble out.

Looking back on it, it wasn’t really a letter, but it was good enough for me. It started with dear Jamie and ended with love Luke, and wasn’t that the minimum requirement for a letter?

I wore plain clothing today; black jeans and shirt, a simply mourning outfit. I asked Lucy for a few spare sheets of paper, picked up a pen and started writing. My handwriting was tiny compared to yours; at half a page I’d written equal to two of yours.

I’d realised I’d needed to let you go, and I’d found the way to do it.

I told you everything; the devastation, the emptiness, the grief that overcame my body and sadness that sent shivers down my spine and sprinkled my skin with goose bumps. Lastly, I told you about all the things I would have told you; the tidbits of gossip (although I admit I didn’t know much), how I’d beaten my eight hundred metre track record by five seconds and discovered a new band. How my sister and I had gone to the Salvos and bought ten new clothing items apiece, for under thirty dollars each.

When I went to your grave, the six pages folded up neatly in a letter, I dropped by the florists and bought a bouquet of flowers; I didn’t want your grave to be bare. I also didn’t want it to be plain, because you never were. You weren’t white roses, you were orange dahlias, yellow carnations and vibrant fuchsias, with just a hint of the pale blue forget – me – nots.

I tied the note to the stems with green ribbon, and could only imagine the sight I was walking into the graveyard, coloured flowers clutched to my chest. Your grave wasn’t one of the newest any more, and I picked out a few flowers to lay on a few abandoned people’s graves, just so they knew they weren’t alone in death.

Your grave looked much happier once I left, sans the few darker patches of soil from tears that had dripped from my cheeks. I brushed them away, took in a gulp of air, and forced a smile onto my face, walking away without a second glance back.

You were at peace – it’s time I was too.