Bittersweet

Seventy Five

I remember the screaming.

The crying, the yelling, the blood, the glass, the body.

And oh god, the body. Bloody and mangled, her hair drenched in her blood and pieces of metal lodged in her throat.

It was like someone had killed me, not her. Like the glass was cutting through my heart and my head and my lungs, because I couldn't feel any of them.

Her face was punctured everywhere, and blood oozed out. It was no longer hit by the car and surrounded by debris; her body became the debris.

The last look on her face was going to haunt me for the rest of my life, I already knew it. It filled me with a kind of sick satisfaction that mine was the last face she saw and the last voice she heard.

But it killed and drained me white that she wouldn't be my last.

I'm a fucking fool. Which sick bastard lets go of a part of their soul, treats it like the scum beneath their shoe, and drives both of them to insanity?

This is my punishment. I lost a part of my soul. And the worst part is, no one blamed me. No one thought I was guilty; they only showed me sympathy.

You show sympathy when your grandfather died of cancer, or when you're sick just before an important test.

You don't show sympathy when you kill someone. You show them disgust and hate.

You hate a murderer. I hate myself.

I'm never going to be able to run my fingers through her hair again. I'm not going to be able to hear her laugh again, or see those eyes sparkle again, watch that smile light up that face that I lived for, or hug her, ever again.

One person blamed me, though.

"Get up. You don't deserve to cry."

I looked up at my sister from my spot on the floor. "It's my fault."

She didn't meet my eyes. "I'm glad you know it. Now leave. You don't deserve to cry, or sit here and pretend like she's a loved one you lost."

I sighed. "But she is. I loved- no, I love her."

My sister finally met my eyes. They were both dead and alive- she was furious. "How dare you? You bastard. If you loved her, then why the fuck did you kill her?"  She screamed the last sentence, fists clenching at her sides.

"Please stop. This was not his fault. Stop accusing your brother of such things. She backed away from the pavement, he didn't push her." My father interrupted us, looking from one to another.

My sister didn't say a word. She just looked at me, as if accusing me. I was both a murderer and a coward. I didn't have the courage to fuss up.

My father came over towards me and wrapped me in a hug. I tried not to cry, clenching my eyes shut.

My sister waited till my father left after assuring me that things would be okay, it's alright, she loved you, I love you, you're not alone.

My sister dropped a small cover onto my lap. She bit her lip, trying not to cry. She turned towards the door, and left. Before leaving, she turned her head back slightly, and murmured. I heard every word.

"She died inside the day you left her."

>>>>>>>

"We are gathered here to mourn the loss of a beautiful and wonderful young girl. It is such a shame that she had all those years of life snatched away from her. Rest in peace, and may your soul watch over us."

I wasn't sat in the rows, dressed in black. I was dressed in the hoodie she gifted my last year, and the t-shirt of mine she loved wearing. My shoes were wrinkled and dirty, from all the times we went dirtbiking together. My jeans were ripped; she loved ripping them and ripped so many pairs of her jeans. She even turned one of my pairs into ripped skinny ones that she ended up stealing herself.

I was leaning back against my car hood, watching the proceedings without a hint of moisture in my eyes. Her parents were huddled up, their eyes a constant waterfall.

I know what she would've said if she were here. 'They care about me now, when I'm dead. People seem to matter more only when they're dead, don't they?'

The only person who probably really cared about her, was my sister. And she was sat in the back, looking down at her lap.

She knew I wouldn't attend. But she didn't know I'd watch. As if realising that I was staring at her, she turned back.

When she saw me, she smiled. But it was the ghost of a smile.

I had enough ghastly smiles to haunt me for a lifetime.

I unlocked my car and got in, reaching for the cover.

In the cover my sister gave me were a locket, a guitar pick, and a lighter. Suddenly, the picture clicked into place. Those burns running along the pale underskin of her arms weren't accidents. They were inflicted. By herself.

I turned the lighter around in my hands, watching it reflect the light. My vision turned hazy as I reached for my pack of cigarettes, and lit one using her lighter.

If the lighter was her way of slowly dying, then it would be mine, too.

I pulled out the guitar pick next, which still had dried blood on it. It was in her pocket during the accident. Rolling down the windows, I held it in the rain. The blood slowly turned red and dripped down, joining her tears.

I pulled the locket out last. They say what you give is what you get. What I had intended as a birthday present, turned out a sick post-mortem souvenir. I slung it around my neck, using my thumb to brush off the dust. Had she, too, clutched and cried over it like was doing now?

I felt like the air inside was suffocating me, like the earth was trying to take revenge. Crumpling up the cover and throwing it in the backseat, I stepped out of the car and turned my attention back to the funeral.

I watched as some girls claiming to be her best friends walked up to the front and spoke about how she was the loveliest girl to live, and how much they would miss her.

She always hated funerals. Claimed they were pointless; only made people feel worse. She hated meeting relatives and friends after a long time only to be covered by black shroud of mourning.

She also said that the person who died probably looked down from above and cried, making it rain. She always said that she wouldn't cry at her funeral; and it would be a sunny day out. So that everyone could be happy.

It was pouring.

I made her cry, once again.

At least, in a sick way, it would be the last time she would ever cry. Never again.

She would never look up at the clouds with me and name them after cartoon characters. She would never be sprawled out my bed next to me watching sci-fi TV shows. She would never lend me an earphone during the bus ride to listen to Arcade Fire.

And it was all because of me.

She would never sink into my arms again. She would never wrap her body around me like she needed it like air. She would never kiss me fervently like she was running out of time.

No; she was laid in a coffin and buried six feet under the stars.