Dear Delilah West

Prologue

Dear Delilah West,

Why? Why would you do that? Why would you take your own life? You had everything. Everything and more. The most caring friends, loving family, gorgeous looks….

Everybody misses you, wants you back, but not as much as I do. I am your soulmate, and I know that there must have been something else, something you never told anyone. Some reason lurking in the shadows, something that made you feel so desperate as to think that there was no other way out.

I will find out what it was. And I will put an end to it.

I finish the letter with a few big fat teardrops, smudging some of the words, but I don’t care. Because I know, really, that Delilah will never get this letter. I’m just clinging onto false hope, onto the chance that she will read it someday. I deliberate for a moment, undecided, and then roll it up and stick it in the wine bottle, shove the cork on and make sure it is sealed, and walk out the front door.

I head down to the beach, completing the short walk in less than five minutes. My quick, stiff strides are the reason that I am so fast – I don’t even stop to admire Mrs Asterberry’s new bed of roses as I normally would have done. She is out pruning them, but she doesn’t look offended when I ignore her. She knows what happened. She probably also saw my puffy, red-rimmed eyes and knew not to say anything.

I know that I have reached the beach when I feel the warm, sun baked sand cramming itself between my toes. My vision has blurred, because I am crying again. I clutch tightly onto the bottle in my hand, wrapping my fingers around it securely – as firmly as I possibly can without smashing the glass. I cannot let it go.

My pace begins to slow, without my making any conscious decision to do so. I’ve found that I am less aware these days. I wonder why that happens. Maybe it’s because so much of my conscious mind is concentrating on the grief that there’s not much left over to do anything else. Or maybe it’s because the sorrow is slowly eating away at me, distorting my sight scarily and letting my mind make decisions of its own. Who knows? I just know that it’s happening to me.

I drift slowly along the shore, allowing the tiny waves to wash over my bare feet. My shorts ripple around my knees in the wind and my already untidy hair is being blown into a disarray of dishevelled dirty blond tousles. I pace for a while, and then wade into the water until it is just lapping at my knees. I throw the bottle as hard as I can, watching it splash into the sea before sinking out of sight. Then I make my way back up to the top of the shoreline, without looking back.

My intention was to go straight home. It’s what I should do – it’s what I want to do. But my feet take me elsewhere, and my mind is in such a foggy state of emotion that it doesn't argue. I shuffle along, following my body as it walks itself to somewhere I haven’t ordered it to go. Soon I find myself on the thin, windy trail that leads to only one place.

The cliffs.

My brain registers the change when the sandy track turns into hard, cold rocks, which come up in uneven points, jabbing into my feet. My eyes see the sharp edge of the cliff where it drops off suddenly. My ears hear the sound of waves crashing on the rocks below, and I can smell the brine in the air. But what my brain doesn't note is the fear. I know what I should be feeling, but….nothing. So I keep moving forward.

I don’t stop until I am right at the edge. My toes curl over the side as I rock back and forth in the wind. Gently; almost like a lullaby. A lullaby of nature. The waves are the melody, the breeze makes the harmony. I wonder if this is how Delilah felt when she stood up here. Peaceful. At ease. The sun is almost completely set – all that’s left of it is a small lump of glowing orange on the horizon.

I look down at the jagged rocks below me, the violent waves smashing against them, spraying the salty sea water so high that I can feel the tiny little droplets on my exposed skin. Right there, I think to myself. Right there is where Delilah died. She jumped off this very cliff and fell, fell, fell, her delicate, fragile body smashing to pieces on those vicious rocks. Broken. Gone. Forever.

Forever.                                                                 

I stumble back, all of a sudden afraid that the wind will push me over, over the cliff, and I stagger back to the tree line, my heart pounding. I look around, feeling I am being watched, but then give a feeble and humourless laugh. Who would be out on the cliffs after sunset? The little orange glow is almost gone. I must hurry home. My mother will be worrying.

My eyes dart around, and I spot a bit of white paper stapled to a nearby tree.

Wait…what?

I hurry to it, hobbling over the rocks, wincing every time one pierces my feet. My heart stops when I see what is written on it.

Sam.

I tear it off of the tree, opening it with shaking hands. I struggle to make out the words inside.

Dear Sam,

I know that you will come here, looking for answers. I know that you will read this.

I know that you will be suspicious about my death; I know you will wonder why. I know that you will know that there is something else going on here. And you are right.

My heart leaps, but then plummets as I read the next line.

But it is not safe for you to know. You must not know. It is too dangerous. And so, as a last request, I beg you this: do not seek answers to your questions. Leave my death alone. Forget about it. It is not safe for you to know.

Please. Trust me.

Love always,

Delilah

I stare at the note in disbelief. I read it and re-read it a thousand times. I cry. I stamp my foot in anger. I curl up in fear. I want to find out what is going on. But I can’t. I have to respect Delilah’s final wish. Forget my suspicions. No; my certainties.

 I walk home. I go straight up to my room and grab Delilah’s jewellery box from the bedside table, fold the note neatly inside, and lock it with a padlock. I hide the box underneath my bed, in the corner. Then, somehow, I go to sleep.