Chim - Every Mark On My Body

Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

I wake gently from me peaceful slumber. Only the second solid and undisturbed sleep I've had in a very long time. Normally I'd wake at regular intervals, mind never fully shutting down to allow us a dreamless and thoughtless rest. Tossing and turning. Nightmares.

But the last two nights, the last two nights I've felt safe. Safe and protected. In a comfortable bed with fresh, unripped sheets. In a comfortable bed with Kimberley. And it isn't the bed that makes us feel that sense of safety that I haven't experienced for so many years. It isn't the smell of the washed sheets or the crisp matress that you could lose yourself in. It's her. Kimberley. It's her caring persona and her comforting smiles. Her affectionate touches and glances and words. It's her attentivness to us and the way I'm feeling. It's the things she knows I need to feel and to be told. And it's how she knows. She seems to be in touch with everything about us and I don't know how. And that scares us.

But it's good scared. It's the kind of scared that comforts you.

The kind of freaky that makes you laugh and smile, and know that you were meant to be friends with this person. Like when you and your best friend say the same thing at the same time. Sing the same line of the same song out of nowhere. Are both watching the same programme on TV at your own houses and simultaneously text one another, laughing about the same childish thing.

I used to have that. Me best friend, William. Will. I'd tease him about his name because he hated it. But the irony occured a few years later, because his name meant 'protector'. We grew up together, us and him were like two peas in a pod. Next door neighbours, yet so much more. When he found out I had to move to London, he cried. He spent every minute with us that he could before I left, and he promised us he'd move down as well as soon as he could. And he did. He left his family and his friends and his whole life in Newcastle to come to college in London. To be with us again. Although he didn't get into the same college as us. When I think about it, our story is very similar to Kimberley and Sarah's. He was me best friend. Me soulmate. The kind of guy who you never thought of dating, but whose bed you could sleep in without getting uncomfortable. When things first got really bad, what must be four years ago now, I'd put a ladder outside me bedroom window and, when I called him (more coughed down the line), he'd climb up quietly. He'd clean us up, and help us into bed. And then he'd stay with us all night. Holding us and soothing us. And then he'd gently wake us up in the morning, checking I was ok before he'd leave, and none would be the wiser. And no matter how badly he wanted to rip Tony to shreds I'd never let him, because I never ever wanted to see him hurt.

But he hurt himself. He killed himself. And never even knew why. He was one of the main reason for me trust issues. I knew him for 17 years, and he never told us what was bothering him. What was so bad that he couldn't tell me of all people? Sure, he left us a letter, telling us how I was like his twin sister that he has protected and loved all his life and that he never wanted to leave us, but 'knew' I could cope in the world by meself.

...because you're strong, Cheryl. Much stronger than I've ever been. And that's why I have to do this. I can't poison your strength any longer.

But he didn't get it. He didn't understand that me strength came from him. And when he gave up his fight completely, I lost the will for mine. We were supporting eachother - propping eachother up and feeding on eachother's strength and praise and kindness. But when I got that text. That text that I have never forgotton.

'Cheryl, come to our bridge please? I love you. x'

Our bridge where we'd be alone with the world. Where we'd catch up on the day, gossiping. Or enjoy the silence of one another's company. We would sit there for hours, feet dangling over the edge, listening to the rush of the cars below us. And I knew that something was wrong when I got the text. Because we'd never arrange to meet at our bridge. We'd always just gravitate there, somehow knowing when the other would be there. And I remember running, feet pounding along the cracked pavement, lungs screaming for toxic air. I remember how worried I was, because I already knew something was bothering him. And I remember what I saw when I got there, but not what I felt. I forced that to the back of me mind a while ago. I remember. I can still see the police cars and the ambulance and the queue of cars in the middle of the road. I can still see the police tape around the railings of the bridge. I remember running up the steps. And I remember someone screaming his name until I realised it was us. And I remember pushing me way through the crowd. I can still feel the policeman's arms wrap around me middle, pulling us back as I dive towards his belongings still left on the bridge concrete, surrounded by tape. And I can still see the little white envelope, me name scrawled across the front in his sloping handwriting. Purple ink, our favourite. And I can remember shouting at the policeman that I'm Cheryl. That the letter is for us. And I can still see his disbelieving face. But somehow I convince him. And I can see him picking up the envelope from the collection of Wills things, including his phone, a candle, his vest, his jeans, his trainers, a packet of his favourite biscuits, his bracelets, his hair wax and his college bag. I remember slumping against the railings beside his things, sliding down into a heap on floor as I tore open the letter. Hot tears splashing down me cheeks and onto it. And I can still remember every god damned word that the coward wrote before he jumped off of that god forsaken bridge.