It had ended badly, so badly that all she could see was white. She had bumbled around in her blank state for weeks now, waiting for the colour to leek back in. Her mind flashed back to the roof-top. Why hadn't she just jumped then, when she had the chance? Her stupid feet had refused it. They had marched her off the roof, down the stairs and into the street on auto-pilot. She had wandered past the book laying open on a drawing of two girls kissing, not wanting to acknowledge its existence.
All the way home she had contemplated playing chicken with the oncoming traffic, her eyes so blurred by the tears that she almost convinced herself that she wouldn't be able to see the cars speeding towards her, thus eliminating any element of fear. Why hadn't she just done that?
She had laid in bed for the first three days just staring at the ceiling, refusing to allow her body to drift into its much crazed state of unconsciousness as she feared the dreams, or was that nightmares, that may ensue. She was mildly aware of her sister bumbling about in the room, saying something or other. She was sure the words were probably supposed to be comforting but she couldn't focus.
On day four she slipped into a restless sleep, replaying the roof-top over and over. She had been shaken awake by her bemused sister, who growled at her for screaming and waking her up from her beauty sleep. She remembered wishing her sister had just smothered her there and then, rather than waking her. Would it have been so much to ask for?
On day five she finally got out of her bed, threw some clothes into a rucksack and rode down to her favourite location. It had lost its charm though. She stared out at the lake replaying memories of the last time she had visited. It had been happier times, and yet it had made her feel worse not better. She wondered what it would feel like to have the water take hold of her lungs. She got as far as standing by the edge and counting down from five, but her feet betrayed her again as they refused to leave the surface that they were now firmly grounded on. Her heart and mind had been destroyed, but why would her body not let itself follow suit? She had trudged back to her bike tears streaming down her cheeks and rode back home.
By day eight she had decided that drugs and alcohol were the way forward in her meagre existence. They had briefly thrown a vibrant spectrum into her life again, but that had soon diminished back to whiteness. Why hadn't she taken just a few too many? She had beaten herself up over her cowardice for several weeks now.
It was day thirty-three, not that she had been counting, and she had finally realised why she hadn't jumped, why she hadn't run into the traffic, why she hadn't drowned and why she hadn't overdosed. She had finally realised why she was still breathing. Although she had lost her soul mate, she still had her family. They were the reason she was rooted to the earth, and they were the reason she would be here for several more years to come. She would never tell her family how they had played a major part in her continued existence, but she guessed she should be mildly thankful to them. After all it is surely better to be alive and emotionless than to be dead.
On day thirty-four she got dressed, headed to her GPs and finally got information on the counselling she had so desperately needed since she stepped foot off that roof-top. She would build her life back up brick by brick; never loving for that brick had been crushed into a thousand tiny shards; but still breathing; still living; and hopefully one day happy again.
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