She remembers those days.
Honeysuckle and tea leaves. The fresh snow falling-slowly, slowly- from the vast sky. The sky itself was blue-blue from top to bottom, all the puffs of clouds sprinkled 'round the air. They were flying (Up, up, up! And away!) with oxygen-power and were placed perfectly next to one another. Kind of like they were buddies. Friends. She was someone who'd look up at the sky and picture dinosaurs and bunny-rabbits forming through the clouds. But, today was a terrible day.
" Kieran, are you ready?" I can almost picture her saying this.
" Yeah, I am!" I'd say gleeful.
But, she's here!
The alarm rings-over and over again- until I smash the clock hard. Rolling to the side of my bed, I find myself on the mahogany floors, spine bruised.
And, like I said before: she remembers those days. Those days in which I had no ounce of courage to pick myself up from my bed. That lazy-cutting classes- type, but not the popular type. The type who'd simmer his eggs too long; to the point they just burnt. But, the type who liked burnt eggs. She remembers that time; the time in which she pleaded for his phone number 'cause she thought he looked hot.
People say that their pride tore them apart. Me, I think that it was my lack of attention to her, specifically. With a sigh, I get up; knowing that I have a class this afternoon.
She and I were two years apart. Maybe it was the fact that I never liked younger girls, (but she was mature for her age) and partly because I was never into her type.
The type that would finish her work in class and make A-B honor roll. The type who was sweet, but shy. The type who cut class but still got good grades (probably because the teachers adored her). What a life she lived! She was perfectionistic, and snobby. Always wearing the latest fads but never the slutty type. Remembering that day-that fateful, insignificant day!- as she quietly strolled down the packed hallways with confidence, I remember. The way she always tried to make eye contact with me, the way that she wanted to know more about me. But! Did she know? I was broken, deceived, trashy. Smoking e-cigarettes in the after-school parking lot with guys who brought along their bitches. She was someone I'd never bat an eye at, but...I needed such a pair of eyes! She lent them to me-with care- and wanted me to see!
But, no matter how kind she was, I never could see that.
April 10, 2008.
There was news that she died at the side of the curb. The curb-that after she killed herself- was bloody and stained. People said it was a car accident. But, some say this: she was driving in the snow on purpose: to die.
Remembers the way I clenched my fists when she mentioned my ex-Caroline- and the way that I purposely ignored her calls. She called though! She called twice, thrice, ten or twelve times. The voicemails she had sent were all in chronological order to the times before her suicide. She remembers the way we met, and the way I safely held her hand out of pity. The way her long, dark hair streamed down her back, the way the curve in her hip was where I had placed my hand in, perfectly. She was wearing a straw hat, black Mary-Janes. Her smile was curved in a sweet way, her eyes were light hazel, black irises. She was on the way to see me for our first date, in her silver Toyota chevrolet.
" Oh, poor thing." People whispered behind my back the day of the accident.
It was a normal day, with an abnormal ending. Her calls would appear on my phone-one after the other- that day. She was desperate for anyone. Any-One. But, no! I let her suffocate, under all the pain. For when no one was looking, she was just as broken as I was.
It was that day that I myself remembered. (finally!) Remembered the calls, the day that I texted her, "I love you". What was the power within those three, simple, insignificant words? They were the catalyst to make her drive (faster and faster!) through the blizzard to meet me. The one thing that ignited her undying love for me. But, did she love me? DID SHE? If she had truly loved me, she wouldn't have drove her car to the side of the curb.
"Poor thing! Did you know? She was diagnosed bipolar when she was only seven-years-old. " Old lady Mrs.Berns says this to her younger friend, Ms.Emilia.
She was drowning; down, down, down. And while I had not realized it, I was the one sinking her.
She remembers that day, alright. The day that she died.
She was put in the casket, and buried in the tomb. But, do people know? Know that while she was rotting away-as most have thought- I saw her half-bloody face everyday? She was like a ghost following me, all the girls I ever saw were all her. She was haunting me, whispering in my ear: " You made me die." She was no longer that sweet, quiet girl. But, she was the girl who reaped the hearts of men. The girl who-as they say- would show up at the same curb-where she died- at twelve midnight and haunt anyone driving by.
Where were those days?
Who here remembers?
As I roam around the public library, I still see her. Her who'd stay in the corner of the classics section: all alone. She liked being alone though. She was only ever one in a million alone-people out there. The way that she wouldn't care that she was alone. Dense was she not. She wasn't like everyone else: every-ONE else whom give a crap about life. For her, a life wasn't valuable. "Treasure chests are valuable. And, for sure thing: I'm no treasure chest" I remember her saying this to me. The only thing that mattered to her was me. Me who was flawed and broken. The guy who'd think about death so much to the point that he himself already feels dead-inside, though alive. What was the point of living? As a society, we have the unbelief in the dead, those who'd we someday become too. WE ALL DIE. We all get-eventually- rotten and eaten by maggots. The maggots whom fearlessly invade us, the hosts and rip us, bit-by-bit-hour-by-hour until we ourselves become decayed. And, like the maggots themselves, we are all those beings. Beings whom live, and die and go to HELL or HEAVEN.
What was the purpose?
The first warm day that I had the belief in myself: was when I met her. Love comes and goes, they say. But, I ask you: what in this world ever stays?
I drive my way to class thinking about her death.
She once told me that she loved me. Of course, I didn't believe her-as naive as I was.
"Do you want to know a secret?" Her eyes are glimmering, wide-open.
"Yes." My eyes are closed, tired from school.
Drained from school. But, it was such a good day.
" Did you know that I love you? "
I was so deaf back then.
"WHAT did you say?"
I recall that day: Valentines day. A day of cheesy pick-up lines from couples, to couples making out in the chemistry hall-ways. I didn't remember her being into that kind of thing. And yet, I heard her say those words.
And I ignored her.
Ignored the way that she looked at me. The way that she never bull-shitted me. The way that-as I drive to class, I will never-never-forget: that time I fell in love with you.
"WHAT THE HELL, MAN!" An old man at the back of me honks abruptly.
But, I see you!
I see YOU.
'Cause like how you remembered that day you died, I remember that day I fell in love with you. The way that you always waited for me, and I never waited for you. The way that you always smiled at me, and I always frowned at you. WHY. Why would you fall for some-ONE as broken as me. I remember that day you first said hi to me. And I never said "hi" back.
"Remember me" She had told me.
'Cause I'm dead too.