Letters you'll never read

Portaits

When we'd stopped crying, Beth and I, I took her hand and we walked to your place. We exchanged no words, but we knew where we were going and we knew that we were going together. Beth led the way. When we got there your mother was sitting at the table, her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking, a mug of tea going cold on the table beside her. Beth and I sat down and cried with her.

United in our grief, we cried until our eyes were sore. When we were finished, we felt numb and your mum waved a hand towards the stairs. "Go up. Get something to remember her by. It's what she'd have wanted." You tried to smile but failed. Beth and I did the same before walking up the stairs tentatively.

I looked around and I could tell, straight away, that this was your room. It was a little cluttered in an organised sort of way. There was a white quilt with flying black birds embroidered on it. That was so you. Birds flying free. There were dark purple cushions, white fairy lights on the wall, a crowded bookshelf, a leather journal on the bedside-table, but the most beautiful of all were the crystals that hung on the ceiling. The sunlight cast rainbows over the walls and I put out my hand so that one glimmered on my palm. Beth watched my movements wordlessly.

Something caught my eye and I turned to see three framed drawings. One of Beth, one of a bird, and one of a boy. Me.

Beth followed my gaze and when she saw the three portraits, she clapped a hand to her mouth, her eyes filling with tears.

"What?" I asked, choking on my sobs. "She only . . ." Beth stuttered shakily. She took a deep breath. "She told me she only drew her favourite things. In all the world."

I couldn't breathe. Together we stepped forward and carefully pulled our portraits off the wall. I knew we were taking them home. We sat side by side on the bed and studied them with blurred vision.

"How?" I asked sadly.

Beth took a shaky breath. "She was crossing the road. Across from Pitt Park, just after the bend in the road." I nodded. I knew the crossing she was talking about.

I suddenly realised I was grasping the frame so tightly my knuckles were turning white. I lay it carefully on the bed beside me and turned back to Beth.

"He - he was drunk," Beth hiccupped. "He was speeding. He hit her. She died instantly."

I felt like I'd been stabbed. I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't live without you.

We stayed there together, sobbing, surrounded by you, feeling so alone.

Then the rainbows faded and so did the light. Beth dug into her pocket and pulled out a note. "She had this in her hand . . ."

I took it and unfolded it.

-P.