…and to think the last time I saw her was just a couple of months ago. The part that hurts more is finding out through the daily news; and getting told that the other station showed censored shots of the crime scene, like a twisted version of CSI — only, horrifyingly real.
I have to force myself to think properly. And with that focus, maybe I’ll narrow my vision just enouth to fool myself into thinking that I’m doing something other than thinking about it.
Logic tells me that it’s wrong to make my lungs and liver pay for what happened, but my brain just can’t forget.
Truth comes a lot easier when you’re thirteen. Things were a lot less complicated too — this or that, us or them, love or hate.
A couple of birthdays back, she even told me she was happy with someone at the moment. And now that conversation haunts me. She always did call me on being emotionless. And the great truth is — it’s certainly not so, because I do feel. (Embarassingly so.) She cared deeply enough to be there, and I wish I did stay for a little while longer.
Sixteen stab wounds to change your life. Sixteen stab wounds to make you think about mortality, and what animal in his right mind would do such a thing. These are the grays in the horizon when you’re thirteen.
I remember her asking me, “will you be okay?” after the whole affair had gone sour. And in my mind I was thinking, “if I said yes, would it really make me okay?” or will the truth feel like sprinkling salt on an open wound? Highschool romance — it was always filled with melodramatic drivel like this.
From up here, I could hear the beat of the people marching towards the precints to perform their civic duty, the noise covering all the sound, and tv, and radio and internet do the same. And the little sound that yelps, and even yearns to be heard comes out as a murmur. These little sounds — they carry the dimmest news.
Such is the sound of a passing, during times like these. Having just found this out, I’m already planning to go to the wake.