Sarah

She’s so beautiful. Long ginger hair of the finest texture, even though stated while admiring her only from afar. Long ginger hair paired with the deepest and most heartwarming moss-coloured eyes above a pair of soft reddish lips. Always tinted. It’s a statement – and one of her fucking stupid rules, too many to list them all at once. Just know she could detain every guy’s gaze without damaging any of her delicate elongated fingers. So many heads cracking. Weak in the knees. Weak in the mind. And she doesn’t even know – or, maybe, pretends not to. She is a cunning little one. 

So beautiful, even as she rejects everything she ate for dinner in her tiny little bathroom. Stressful night, huh? If only she improved the lighting in there, though…it would be much easier to detect what she is actually vomiting or distinguish her facial expressions along the way. Oh, the sweet faces she makes under so many different circumstances. How adorable of her to furrow her brow and crinkle her eyes; bite on her bottom lip and make the cutest dimples; open her eyes and mouth wider and wider just…for…me. A true doll. My doll.

Following her every movement, I watch as she enters the adjoining dark room. Her childhood bedroom. Full of memories that should be admitted to her eyes only, right? Nobody would be entitled to snoop through drawers, photo albums or old diaries unless she gave permission, right? That’s some unspoken rule. But what about stealing a glance from afar, instead? Surely not my fault if she takes her own sweet time to undress and redress in front of a bay window without curtains, right? All of that sometimes spiced up with some healthy crying, too. She should definitely be more careful of unknowingly letting strangers into her childhood home.

No crying tonight, though. Not even a little whining while crumpled up on her fluffy bed like she usually does on Fridays. What a pity. I’ve lately found myself wondering whether her tears taste salty or sweet. And, well, let’s admit it, the answer could ever only be one for me: sweet like honey. However, tonight is not the night to find out, as she lays down on her back, her smooth face barely illuminated by the screen of her phone. She’s chatting, but with whom, I have no idea. Hm. Let her chat. 

In the meantime, let me tell you more about my guardian angel. For one, her name is Sarah – mine, fortunately, you will never discover. No need to know, of course. For two, she is a creature of the night: that’s why she’s departing at such an inconvenient time. Depart where, you may ask? Sorry, I may have mispronounced: she’s actually leaving – me – forever. I saw her pack her stuff earlier this evening. A lot of stuff, surely not for a quick fall trip. No, as I observed her working furiously, almost madly, I knew what it was all about. Then, she lagged a bit, as if she couldn’t maintain a stable connection with reality. Yes, I can confidently say she dissociated a few times during the whole process. 

She doesn’t really wish to leave – I know that, too. Abandoning your childhood home and town at the age of twenty-six? Easy stuff for somebody who healthily grew up there. Done stuff for somebody who didn’t lose both mother and father two years earlier – and that is just the tip of the iceberg. They will never feel the imperative hunger for guilt and shame raging within those people who had a twisted childhood. We grieve on a daily basis what is and what could never be. Therefore, as she randomly shoved all her clothes and survival belongings in a big suitcase, I could tell she was not just leaving, but running. Running away without detaching her lovely family photos from the wall; without packing her little cow plush; without grabbing that red foulard her mother used to wear on Sundays and of which she took possession when she passed; without taking out the mournful letters she wrote every single night after the accident.

My attention slowly goes back to my favourite subject, only to discover the inevitable. Everything has turned dark and silent int Sarah’s house. Every tiny doubt I had about her plan has now dissolved. She really did it. And I am in pain. 

Because the truth is, life was not fair to neither of us, but she was the one that actually did something about it; she was courageous enough to try and put an end to all her suffering, even when that was the only thing holding her pieces together. That’s why I envy as much as admire her. That’s also part of the reason why I started watching her. Beauty aside, I saw something, a strength, maybe, buried deep inside of her that I wished I could have snatched and kept for myself only. 

So I watched her closely, as she committed the perfect crime: leave her parents behind. So I watched her closely and imagined that her house was my house and that her body was my body, so that I could be the one turning on a new leaf. Not her. Me. For about a second, I let myself taste the freedom I had only ever dreamt of at night; I let myself magically explore new horizons beyond my red fence; I let myself smile again in the company of people of my age. It was beautiful and it was real. For a second only. After that, quicker than I could ever pronounce the word “quick”, I saw my ghost bow his head and make his way back indoors. Inside the same old house he had hated for a lifetime. Sadder than ever. 

Fly away, Sarah. You will never get to read this – thankfully – yet as you remain the recipient of my sorrows and dreams, I want you to know that I have loved as much as hated you. After your parents’ death, you probably wondered if anyone would ever truly love you again, and, well, I did. In my own twisted game and in my own twisted way, but I hope that still counts. You got to be both loved and hated at the same time, isn’t that quite romantic? 

My cunning angel, you made my head crack in so many directions I would be bound to have a bunch of bone issues when I’m older. If only it weren’t for an interesting fact I will reveal to you in a moment. Did I make you curious? What you don’t know and would never be able to find out from a piece of paper if I didn’t tell you right now is that as I’m currently writing using my left hand, I am holding another heavy object in the right. To be more specific, a gun. Don’t ask me when or where I found it. Just know I am writing in the hopes of calming my brain before I can muster up the courage to pull the trigger. Yes. I intend to, my dear. My life has no meaning on this Earth nor do I wish to look for it. Look for it where, anyway? And now that you’re gone, the cage I’m locked in is shrinking with impeding speed. It’s like I’m slowly stopping breathing before I’m even truly dead. Worse than death itself. I know nobody will miss me, though, don’t worry. Not even you, but I don’t blame you. And don’t you dare blame yourself for leaving either, please, do it for me. P l eas e, d o it. ………….