Memoriam
"I passed by it again today," I say, glancing down at my chewed up cuticles as the raw spring air turns my pale face pink. "It's still there."
The cracked, yellowed plastic swing bends and sways underneath my weight, the gravel beneath it crunching under the rubber soles of my shoes as my toes grapple for traction. The smell of wet earth overwhelms the air.
"Oh?" you ask, lifting an eyebrow, half-curious, half bored. "I'm surprised; it's been almost two years. I'd have thought people would've forgotten by now."
"Well," I shrug, nudging the ground with my toe to keep the swing moving. "It's still there. Pictures, and flowers, and shirts and stuff, you know? They've even put a cross up." It's a shoddy little thing, made of uneven slabs of plywood and only half painted. I don't tell you this.
"That's nice of them, I guess."
I look at you then and see your faded blue sweatshirt, your loose pair of jeans with the hole in the knee: the ones you always used to wear. I can even smell your cologne—Old Spice, per usual—and that sweet smell of your shaving cream that always lingers on your chin, long after a razor's been there. The air itself is misty, enough so that we're sheathed in a layer of moisture, and yet these scents stand out to me, clear as day and night.
"It wasn't supposed to happen like this, you know. You are—were—my best friend. It wasn't—"
"Yeah," you whisper, picking at the hole in your jeans, like it's suddenly the most fascinating thing. "I know."
"Sometimes I feel like you don't," I venture, keeping my gaze down as my cheeks heat up again. I never enjoy seeing you upset.
"You've never actually known," my voice comes out as murmur. "Sometimes…sometimes I feel like, if I just had a chance, you know, to explain it all, to tell you everything. I feel…I feel like I've lost you."
Looking up quietly, I notice that your face is contorted, as if in pain. I immediately regret causing it. It all used to be so easy, the two of us together. If you were sick, I'd bring you soup. If I were to bomb a math test, I'd find comfort in the knowledge that you would bring me my favorite cookies afterward to cheer me up. My life revolved around our friendship.
My eyes burn as I blink back frustration and guilt. I can tell this conversation's not going well. My nail polish has chipped severely, and I've bitten the nails down to the quick. Instinctively, my hands ball into tight knots. God, how I hate this.
"Hey, look," you say with a sigh, noticing my clenched fists. You're softening a little, putting on that sympathetic half smile that made me fall in love with you in the first place. "I'm right here. You've always got me. I'm sorry."
You reach your hand out with that last sentence, as if to comfort me, but think better of it, stopping just before you touch my face. I can't help but notice, out of the corner of my eye, that you're wincing.
Nodding, I nudge the ground once more, taking slight satisfaction in the little well my shoe has made in the mud.
"It feels like we were just here," I whisper, tucking some hair behind my ear.
"And we sat on these very swings," you add, giving me that half-grin.
"And there was a family having a picnic over in that clearing."
"And an ice cream truck over there, by the parking lot."
"And some kids playing on the climbing structure."
"And we were here," you lower your voice to a whisper. "Here. On these swings. And I told you I loved you."
With that, my throat convulses, choking me, and prickly tears sting the corners of my eyes. I try to be brave and put on a smile. It's obvious I'm failing.
"You were my best friend for so long," my voice sounds alien to me, cracking and croaking so. "I was going…I was going to tell you. At the party that night. That I…that I felt the same way. I feel so cheated."
"It's just survivor's guilt," you say quietly, tucking your hands back into your pockets. "That's what the counselor said, right? It will…go away some day. You'll find reason in it all. It will dissolve. Poof. Into thin air. You'll just have to wait it out."
"I can't," I moan, closing my eyes and seeing the blood drip down your forehead, watching your mouth fold into a grimace of pain, as if it were happening all over again. "I won't!"
"Look, you've got to. What's done is done," the corners of your mouth tug upwards in a sad smile, hinting at dimples. Running a hand through your short, dark hair—you had just gotten it cut that day, for the party—you turn to me, locking eyes. "You can't change the past. There's nothing you can do about it, you know? Nada. Zip."
Your eyebrows furrow in deep thought as you glance up towards the murky, gray, late afternoon sky. You're biting your lip in a way that always drove me crazy.
"That is," you add, a smirk overwhelming your tone, "Unless you own a time machine. In which case, I would be very upset with you for not sharing."
Despite myself, you get me to laugh, so hard that I can't even tell whether the tears streaming from my eyes are from laughter or from sorrow.
Then, though, I remember that slice, so shockingly, richly scarlet and so deep against the stark, white skin of your neck. How the torn framework of the car formed a mangled silver halo above your head. It is then that I know the tears are from sorrow.
I force myself to sober up almost immediately. The laughter, however brief it was, buries itself somewhere in my chest.
It takes me several moments to form my scrambled thoughts into coherent sentences. That deafening squeal of metal against metal. The shrieking—was that you or me? The dull, throbbing sensation in the back of my head is picking up, drumming to its own beat. The doctor said this might happen every now and then. I debate whether or not to dig for the little amber bottle of pills he gave me and decide it's not worth the effort.
Sighing, I rub my skull, massaging it the best I can as you look on in concern. Your look of pity feeds my anger all over again.
"I shouldn't have let you drive," I say decisively. I was supposed to be the practical one. "We knew there were going to be a lot of them on the road at that hour. I was so stupid…so…so naïve. I hate myself for it."
"It's not your fault. You can't predict the behavior of a drunk," you say, shrugging sadly and attempting a reassuring smile. "Alcohol works in mysterious ways."
"It's…it's not fair," my eyes strain trying to hold back the brunt force of my emotions. I had promised myself I wouldn't use the f word anymore. Whenever I did, it all became a fresh, new wound again. "It's…I just can't…but…it's not," I blubber now, my chapped bottom lip trembling enough to prevent me from speaking.
"It's okay," you murmur, your eyebrows furrowing intently. "It's going to be okay."
"No," I insist, fat tears rolling down my cheeks, "It's not okay! I never…you never…you never knew."
"We were together," you whisper quietly, looking down at your clasped hands. "It was good for that time, wasn't it?"
"It wasn't nearly enough."
"But I loved you," you argue, leaning towards me enough so that I think I feel the heat of your breath on my cheek. "And I knew that you felt the same way."
"I…" my throat catches, an invisible lump of hurt forbidding me to finish my sentence, forbidding my to breath or swallow. A wracking, convulsing sob pushes me forward, and I gag, thinking that this lump is choking me, that it will kill me, if given the chance. I force it backwards. "I love you. I didn't get to tell you, and I love you."
I think of the last time I said this, tears streaming down my face, begging the ruby red rivulets of blood to stop flowing, the lacerated skin to adhere and mend, begging the webbing of fractures in the windshield to disappear, the burning smell of the rubber tires to go away, begging that other car to reverse all the way to the New Year's Eve party it had come from, for the driver to get out, walk back into the house and stop drinking after two beers.
My shoulders sag, wildly convulsing, and I find I can't remember the last time I took a breath. I can feel my lips moving, trying to close, but they remain open in a grimace, tugging the corners of my face down, down, down. No words or gasps of air. My heartbeat—wild, erratic, pulsing strongly—is everywhere. I can feel everything all over, like I'm being attacked by a swarm of fire ants. For a moment I think 'this is it'. For a moment, I begin to believe that this is what dying feels like. I beg for the pain to take me: to free me. I want to transcend this place, this awful place.
It's then that I get a whiff of that smell. Spicy, cloying, choking. It's your cologne, but now it belongs to a different body. As the smell dissipates, my pulse slouches off, no longer beating my chest for an escape. The river inside me has died, and, once again, I'm empty, alone. My eyes are closed so tightly that it takes some strength to finally pry them open. I can't leave; this I know. I'm stuck here. All at once, the fire that consumed me so has vanished. I take a deep, shaky breath and let it out slowly, blinking a few times.
The sky above me is still gray, threatening to pour rain at any moment. Wild winds swat my hair around, turning it into a mess of blonde tangles; the metal chains of the swing are still slick with mist and sweat. My toes have pushed a clearing in the gravel blanket, enough so that the wet earth marks the rubber soles of my shoes.
Somewhere off in the distance a bird calls, taking flight. The bare branches shake and rattle as the sparrow makes its way into the marbled skies. I clear my throat, rubbing my eyes with the heel of my palm. I'm suddenly aware of how I must look to passersby, with my red, bloodshot eyes, mangled curls, and rumpled clothing.
"Anyway," I say quietly, to no one in particular, as I rise from the swing set, pulling the hood of my blue sweatshirt over my head and working my way home before the rain starts, "that old Oak tree's almost healed around the spot; the bark is growing over the area. The little memorial is holding up nicely, given all the storms we've been having."
Exiting past the heavy stone markers, I take a left, passing by the tree once more. The splintered wood of the cross is rough against my palm as I walk by.
"I miss you," I whisper, moving on.