For Forgiveness

Life is so much better now that I'm dead.

I wonder if this is how Martha felt, slowly sinking to the bottom of the ocean, gently rested on the pebbled land when the tide came out. I'm drifting from what's real to what's on the other side, a bright light, dark colours, and I have never felt so at home. Peace, at last.

Beep.

But the light is fading, and the darkness is growing pale.

Beep.

I can hear voices, dreadful noises to keep me awake when all I so desperately want to do is sleep.

Beep.

And my eyes are open, I can see. I can see all too familiar hollow blues and greens, half masked faces, stern expressions and the hospital room I've awoken to for the third time this year.

"She's stable, keep her awake."

And that confirms the worse, or maybe the best, I'm never too sure of which. I am back in reality, I am alive.

*

"Elfaine, do you know why you're here?"

I take a drag on my cigarette, amused by the way Natasha wrinkles her nose at the smell. I've come to feel endeared by people who wrinkle their noses.

"Isn't it obvious, Tasha? I've tried to kill myself again, haven't I."

Natasha sighs, and I take another puff as she scribbles something down in her notepad. I don't know what she writes, not really, but I can take a good guess. I guess it's something along the lines of 'dismissive' and 'will only respond with cocky answers.'

"I'm not in denial, you know, Tasha," I say. "and I don't mean to be difficult, either."

Natasha blinks her big blue eyes at me, shocked behind the thick rims of her glasses. "How did you know what..." She tucks her wild blonde hair behind her ears, shaking her head slightly before scribbling something else down. "Never mind."

I like Natasha. She makes me smile, which is like gold dust at the moment.

"You start with the same question every time." I say, flicking the cigarette butt through Natasha's window.

"Well, why don't we start with something else?"

I shrug, "Like what?"

"I could ask you about why you want to die?"

I immediately tense. She notices, and I dare to say she seems proud of herself for gaining some sort of a reaction from me. "Shall we start with that question instead, Elfaine?"

"I don't want to die." I say so quickly I'm not even certain of if I said it. "I just don't want to feel. I feel too much. Painkillers are supposed to numb, right?"

"You know, that's the most I've ever got out of you, Elfaine."

"That's because you're a shitty therapist." I mutter with a smirk so she knows I'm joking. "And I've been telling you every week for a year, please, call me Elfie."

"I don't like to use nicknames, it feels unprofessional."

"It's unprofessional to let me smoke in your sessions, but you still let me." I say and she rolls her eyes. "You also let me call you Tasha, not really fair, is it?"

"My office, my rules." I think this is the closest Natasha has ever been to stern. "Besides, if I'm so shitty then why do you allow me to counsel you?"

"Because I like you, Tasha, you make me smile." At this, Natasha adds to the notes on her paper, the corners of her lips curving only slightly. "I'm going to see a friend tonight." I tell her, and her mouth forms an 'O' shape. "And before you ask who, because you and I both know that I don't have many friends, it's the one from New Jersey."

"The only friend you ever talk about, yet you haven't even told me their name."

"You don't need to know their name, all you need to know is that they give good advice."

Natasha's expression grows with concern, no doubt reminded of the vague stories I have dubiously relayed throughout the last twelve months.

"They told you to cancel your pity party, am I correct?"

I nod, pleading for the crushing burn in my chest to vanish. "Yes," I say, "and I wish I had listened."

*

I remember the first time he told me he loved me. I can remember whispering, cheeks pink, 'shut up, you idiot.' I wish I'd told him sooner, wish I hadn't left it until he had no choice but to cling at my wrists, remembering me in the darkness, saying 'I love you, I love you, please don't go, stay.'

'I can't.'

I haven't been truthful with Natasha, not exactly. I've made out like my meeting with Gerard has been arranged when really it's just me turning up to his gig, uninvited, unexpected. It stings, I suppose, that he hasn't asked me to any of the dates for his bands tour, I mean, it's not like England is a skipping trip from New Jersey. The thought would have been nice, that's all.

Then again, I haven't spoken to him since the planes crashed into the Twin Towers. It's been just over four years since I picked up the phone, pressing the numbers with trembling fingers, squeezed my eyes shut, begged for him to be okay. I knew he'd been working as an illustrator for the Cartoon Network in New York. He'd mentioned it in one of our rare Email conversations, along with a few lines for how the office cubicles were draining him. When he answered, voice small, the reassurance that he hadn't been harmed by the tragedy on his way to work shattered me. It shattered me because I knew how much I still loved him, still love him, it's an ache.

"Why do you even care?" He had whispered, "Everything's breaking, and I don't need you." and the line went flat.

Now, standing in the North London street, nose wet from the October bitter, I have to dare myself to walk past those metal doors. I had to dare myself to at least turn up to the venue, had to smother those voices in my head just for one night. They tell me not to bother, they tell me it'll only end in tears. I tell them I won't regret it, I'll never regret it.

The truth is, I'm terrified.