They wanted to know if you died quickly. I answered that you did. But I don’t know. The man in grey said your neck broke the fall. And the other way around.
They asked who was out looking for you. Your mother had called. She had just finished making your favorite. She wondered where you were. I told her you were walking because I thought you still were. I know you were blasting System of a Down. That’s all I hear now.
They wanted to know why you skipped French. You should have confessed in class. I hadn’t learned the word for hurt yet, or slut.
I remember looking up at you. You could always climb so high. At the tree line you were out of reach. Such a tiny thing, eclipsing the entire neighbourhood. When I got halfway up and the ground looked smaller than it should, I asked to be your maid of honour and you said you would never get married.
I’ve been re-watching our 2014 sci-fi picks. We fought about time travel and how you believed it never works. You were good at thought experiments and I was embarrassed that I couldn’t keep up with predestination this, and grandfather theory that. I started to panic and couldn’t breathe, and in that ever so calm way you said “Jess, it ends for us all” and somehow you made that comforting while you held my hand, and then I understood. How time doesn’t stop but you could get us pretty close to it.
We fell asleep two warm bodies at the end of Interstellar, laughing, probably because we were high. But come on, the black hole is time and time is a bookshelf of memories.
They wanted to know what you did. You swore it only happened once. That you were drunk and he was pushy. That he had been trying behind my back for so long. That he closed his eyes and couldn’t get hard at first. Was that you trying to make me feel better? I’ve landed on yes but this would be way easier if I could hate you.
They wanted to know why you chose to walk. You didn’t. It just happened. The things you say do not come back to bite you. It’s more of a creeping infection. A small cut where bacteria and self disgust enter, then creep under your skin and burrow. There must a fable or story or some lesson that ends with cutting out one’s own tongue. Lately I taste a rust that lingers at the back of my throat. Your face was so wet and red and you argued and cried that our bond was tighter than any boys’ and I chuckled at your drama. You were in the wrong so I was to make the scene, not you. I pulled over, told you to get out, because I thought I’d hit you where you sat. Maybe I should’ve.
They asked if I can sleep at night.
I haven’t slept yet. I stare at my ceiling and watch last summer play out. The sun is hidden. You’re at top of the sand dune hill. Your dark silhouette sways with the tall grass and I can’t tell if you have your back to me. I’m trying to bring you your cherry seltzers so I walk for some time but don’t seem to get closer. I figure if I don’t sleep and stay up and stare long enough time will flatten or circle onto itself. But you were the one who understood this.
In the end they wanted to know why you were found frozen and dead on that lonely bank.
It’s because I’m a bad person. Maybe you think so too, but if you don’t, I’m walking by the library today.
They want to know about you, Rachel, the dead girl who was so bright and full of life. But I beg them. Think about the living one. I’m cold and alone and the river looks so inviting.
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