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Third, the yellow-orange bottle of painkillers, empty, with the white cap upside down and sitting next to it. First, the black and silver alarm clock that had been there as long as I remembered its red digital numbers shining into the room that seemed to be quickly shrinking. Her hands were folded across her chest, and her legs, although not crossed, were pressed together. She was in a beautiful, white, springtime dress that was covered in a rose design. I dared not disturb her, only call her name. I had gone to my parents’ room to fetch her for dinner - I had always loved cooking as a family - and found her lying peacefully in bed. I was the one to find her, and although I wasn’t too young to understand, I was still too stupid at eleven to put all the pieces together. I could still picture the scene of her death. And it will lead to a self destruction much akin to hers. But it’s the last reminder I have of her. Somehow I wish I had brought it with me so I could’ve dropped it off the cliff. A final “I love you.” The knife was for me. But the note she left was meant for my father. Why do you think she left? You overwhelmed her. I had taken her presence for granted, and now she’s gone. Maybe things wouldn’t be so damn confusing if I still had her as my guide. I sat up and pulled my knees to my chest.
I remember how warm her hugs were, and how soft her voice was. The nostalgia came back in waves, drowning me in bittersweet emotions. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get myself to stop thinking about her. From school, to Sayori, to the club, and so on.
Add this to the ever-growing list of impulsive things I’ve done.ĭespite knowing it wouldn’t end well, I let my mind wander. That’s dangerous, isn’t it? Being alone with your thoughts? Perhaps it was not the best idea to be alone with my thoughts, considering the circumstances, but I couldn’t bring myself to return back home and distract myself. The silence of the forest seemed to drown out the sounds of civilization in the distance. Once my hands were empty, I laid down where Sayori and I had watched the March stars. I dropped the pinecones I had collected over the edge one at a time, listening to the faint scutter as each hit the bottom of the gorge. I paced to edge of cliff and looked down. And I remember running to her in tears every time I missed a branch and scraped up my leg, and she’d always tell me, “Are you bleeding? No? Then you’re okay!” Oh how times have changed. I could remember when Mom used to sit outside and read novels while I climbed trees. I admired the change of scene as I walked along from town to shrubs, flowers and larger plants, pine, oak.Īmong it all I saw my mother in the shadows, disappearing in the rays of light that hit the forest floor. I walked deep in the forest, back to the cliff where Sayori once was. She’s not going to be there when you walk back in, I reminded myself, Mom is gone she has been for years. With a burdened sigh, I walked out the door and closed it gently behind me. I should be back in time for dinner.” He showed a worried smile and nodded. “You leaving again?” My dad asked when my hand reached the doorknob of the front door. I left my phone on my bed and headed down the stairs to the living room. I’m miles behind the present at this point but sure.
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Besides, you know full well that if you turn on your phone you’ll just end up scrolling through old pictures of Mom. I had no need to make any today I was with Sayori.īut now she's abandoned you. And thus, I was careful not to reopen the wounds I created on Thursday when making more on Friday. I had slit my arms to pieces after leaving the cafe, but I hadn’t since because I knew if Sayori saw today that I had fresh extremely bloody bandages, then she’d be worried. Clearly however, I was very far from okay. Was it because I cut myself? Was it because I’m a hopeless romantic? Is it because I’m somehow romanticizing the idea of playing with the knife my mother gave me with her corpse as a way of connecting with her now dead spirit? God, I was messed up. Well, at least I can differentiate truth and lies from my inner monologue now. You’re a mess, it seemed to tell me indirectly, and you know why, too.
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I tried to break free of my self-narration as I stared at the contortions of lengths of hair the knife portrayed. But as I wrote on that cold February morning, people are not poetry, nor simple metaphors or the like. I glanced at my reflection in the polished white knife handle. As if I was suddenly the narrator of my own life. I was having an odd existential moment after coming back from Sayori’s house.
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