I looked over the bridge and saw his dead body.
The bridge.
The one over Monique bay in the town known as Liwens.
I ran down the cold mud-stained concrete steps.
Swosh, swash, swosh, swash, swoooosh.
It was pouring rain on a Saturday evening. The sand tickled my feet each step I took running closer and closer to him.
“Blake… BLAKE,” I yelled towards his body.
It was no use. I knew he was dead, he was just floating over there by the rocks.
He was pail and curled up. His eyes were wide open and he was covered in cuts. He was holding a small note. I ripped from his hands.
“You keep me alive and dead at the same time. I know how you feel I need to leave,
My time has come to simply jump.
I love you”
His cheesy poems. The ones I found in my locker or my bed room window. I loved them, I loved him. I kicked off my white ballet flats and began putting these items into the shoes:
-a hair barrette the shape of a bumble bee
-a steel comb
-an old key which was put on a necklace
-a bottle of purple nail polish
And every poem or note that he ever wrote me.
I placed the shoes carefully by his numb legs. I looked at him and began to cry. I wept and remembered everything.
It was a warm May Saturday morning. I Clara Kaddens was fifteen years old. I looked like a normal teenager, blond hair which I either curled or straightened, turquoise eyes, and I was 5’3. I had been stuck living in this town all of my life and nothing ever happened. I knew everyone, not to think I was friends with any of them. I had five friends, if you don’t count my friends.
I never had a boyfriend or anything like that. I was to some extent pretty but never popular. I was the first girl that all of the new guys stared at but once they talked to me they realized I was insane. I wasn’t exactly insane just rather unique.
I was quiet except when it came to my friends and family. With them I could say, do and feel anything. I often read books (particularly poetry) and smiled dully at people. I wore a lot of skirts and dresses with ballet flats or converse.
I ran out of the house to go get coffee at the coffee shop. It’s an old two story building that’s painted a ruby red that’s paint has been chipped. Inside its kind of seventy’s with all of the tables and the pictures hanging around.
Upstairs was a library, twice as big as down stairs but still small. You could drink coffee and eat a muffin while reading a book up there. You would think that this was my favorite place to be but no. I mean I love it and all but downstairs is better. I know everybody down there really well and I like to keep them company. I’m friends with them all (still not counting my five friends. I know you would count these people as my five friends but they all hang out here. My five friends go to my school.), but never would I think to work there. Just sitting here talking to them while they make my coffee is so much fun.
“Hey Tommy,” I called towards the counter. Tommy, the owner’s son was nineteen. He never went to college or anything like that he hardly graduated from high school. Tommy had been helping his dad since he could walk and he said he could “never let him down”. That’s what I hate about Tommy. He says he can never let someone down when they won’t be let down because no one expects that much out of anyone. It’s starting to make me think it’s an excuse for him being lazy.
