My Best Friend's Killer

My Best Friend's Killer

Last week, on the 2nd of April, my best friend died.

No one expected it, or could even believe it when the news was spread, like wild fire out of control. Some were in denial immediately, believing it to be some cruel late April Fool's joke, others seemed to have come to terms with it sooner, as if it was no surprise. Like a dream as they say, it didn't seem real to me, it felt strange and wrong and oh so horrible. I don't think anyone knew what to say or do. How do you act upon the death of someone you had spent your whole entire life with? Who despite anything the world threw at you, knew regardless that the second you turned their presence would fill the empty gap?

I turned to stare at the void she had left.

Now what?

I had been the first to find out, her parents second, after the doctors had declared her gone. I had stayed by her side in the ambulance, refusing to part with her as paramedics rushed to her aid. I could hear the screams and the wails of machines they hastily plugged her into, the echoes of voices yelling nonsensical words in the air. The pounding of blood in my ears.

And all the time I just kept asking why.

Why was she in this state? Why was she dying? Why hadn't I been looking out for her? Why, why, why? And how? How was this happening? Was this real? Who had hurt her? Who killed my best friend?

She had been found with a wound to the chest, impaled thrice and left to bleed out, pink skin turning pale as her body struggled to keep up with the abnormal loss of blood. My clothes were painted with the red of her spillage, my hands shaking as I applied pressure to stop the flow. Left hand dialling for help as I smeared the scarlet liquid over the glass screen. I had been begging with tears in my eyes, clouding my vision but not enough so that I could see her face scrunched up in pain. I was chanting, pleading, saying and making promises that made no sense so long as she lived.

It did nothing.

We had arranged to meet up that day to go ice skating, a fun activity we both enjoyed immensely that resulted in the discovery of her corpse.

She had died in my arms, minutes before any help could arrive, but death could not be declared until it was said by the word of a professional, who could only offer a sad look.

The autopsy had provided information that was useless, stab wounds, knives, three times, things that anyone would have known if they paid attention. She had been killed, the murder unidentified, and within 4 hours of the printed information's release, investigations in homicide had arisen.

They all turned empty.

No one, not a single detective, department or team could uncover the truth and provide a name, place, address, a person to throw behind bars. At the time, we remained restless, justice unserved so long as the man – no, monster, remained free, walking and talking and spending a life that he stole. The weapon that had destroyed was examined, no fingerprints to be found. 2 Days of her apartment being combed, inch by inch in the hopes of anything. Personal items being taken away and documented, filed and given back in hopes of anything meaning something.

I even went in there myself.

It was cold, quiet, empty, and full of nothingness. Unlike any time I had visited before. Unfriendly and strange, with police tap stretching beyond anything. Nothing was as it should have been. Everything had been moved, dusted, covered in talc powder, noted. It was beyond a place of memories now, it had moved on from that moment in time.

I left empty handed, or so I had claimed, for you see, I actually found something that closed the story, the mystery and everything that everyone had wanted to know. A secret I think I'll keep with me until my death, the guilt being too much to share with others.

My coat left that building a pocket fuller than before, barely an ounce in weight difference but enough for me to know that I had carried something far heavier outside. It had been hidden deep down within her pile of old school books, the middle of a scrap book that we both shared. I was crazy, reliving memories and moments that could no longer come and would no longer play. The answers were pink, and enclosed within an envelope, containing nothing but my name on the front.

I had been my best friend's killer.

I was the one who ripped the life away from her and never returned. It had been me, her best friend since as long as I could remember, the person who promised her no harm would come to her and everything would be ok. The person who cried, and begged and pleaded unknown forces for her life to remain and for mine to be exchanged at the price. It was me who ended up doing the deed of damage.

It was said that I was pushy, I was clingy, obsessive, possessive, impulsive, compulsive, naïve. I was the sweet treat she was addicted too but knew she shouldn't have. I didn't get it. I don't get it. How, what did I do so wrong? Where did I fail so miserably at being a friend? She had killed herself that day, hours before we'd meet, intentionally and knowingly planning for me to find her there. To see the mess that I had made. The mess I couldn't fix.

Oh god, she looked so broken.

And knowing that it was all my fault, the way I spoke and treated her was done so carefree it damaged her internally. I was only trying to have fun. I was only trying to be a nice friend. I never meant to say or do anything to make you hate yourself!

I didn't mean to brag, or to show you or make you feel inferior, I didn't mean to make you think that your life was shitty because I truly thought that you loved your life and that you were ok. I can't forgive myself for never seeing, never realising the true pain in your eyes every time you smiled or laughed. I hate myself for never recognising your struggles and never helping you out in ways that I should have.

So now you're reading this.

I don't know you, you probably don't know me. But whoever you are, you know the secret, you know the truth, you can set things right. Tell all those who I couldn't that I'm sorry, that it had been my fault for her suicide, her isolation, her anger and depression. It should have been me instead.

I don't care how you do it or who you say it to first, or even if you make me into the worst monster you can. I'm ashamed, guilty and full of a weight and burden that will not, cannot leave. By reading this letter, the only promise you make is that you'll let the truth be known in my absence, to let them know what happened.

Sincerely,

My Best Friend's Killer