Today’s story comes from guest author Kristen Abbey. Kristen is originally from a small Amish town in Indiana, and currently lives in upstate New York. She attended the American Musical and Dramatic Academy for musical theatre, and writes as well as pursues a singing career.
They found her in her bathtub, head under the blood and water mixture and a gun in her hand. We didn’t really expect her to commit suicide. But then again, you don’t really ever expect anyone to. Most people don’t like thinking about those things.
I wouldn’t lie. I’d thought about killing myself from time to time. But I knew I didn’t have the balls to do it. And that seemed to be the good part about me. I didn’t have enough balls to do anything out of the ordinary or against the rules. And maybe that’s why I fell in love with her. She possessed the courage I lacked, and I craved for that.
It was a closed casket. I hated that. I couldn’t tell her I loved her ever again, couldn’t kiss her forehead or see her olive skin. It’d been a week since I’d seen her, and frankly, I couldn’t remember what the hell she looked like. All I could picture was her dead body. I never actually saw it, but I still had an imagination. I didn’t like thinking about it, but when your girlfriend commits suicide, your mind tends to wander a lot when you can’t sleep.
She was happy and warm-hearted. Then again, I guess you never really know a person until you read their suicide note. She wrote to me not to blame myself for her mistakes and her taking her life. But I did. I blamed the shit out of myself. Who else was there to blame? I was the only one to see her through everything that happened to her. Hell, I was the one holding her hair back when she was vomiting in the toilet of our college dorm. I was the one who was there during all her emotional breakdowns when she failed a test or every time she was feeling anxious. I was just always there and she always took my offers. It happened more and more as school got more stressful. But that was before we fell in love.
I mostly blamed myself because she was happier before we got together. It was my fault she was depressed, no matter how much she denied it. Everyone knew it. I always wondered why she hadn’t left me yet. Maybe she didn’t want to hurt me or she was confused on how she felt about me but I never really understood that. I was so sure about my feelings and she never knew whether to say ‘I love you’ back to me. Maybe that’s another reason why I fell in love with her. We were just opposites who happened to find each other.
Her parents approached me, gave me a slow and solemn hug and cried harder than they already were. What was I supposed to do?
“I’m sorry.” I mumbled, my hands in my pockets. They nodded, which I assumed meant ‘Don’t be’. But I still was. I would always be sorry.
“She loved you, ya know,” her dad said, his voice wet and quivering.
All I could say was “I know.” and walk away. I refused to say anything else with the fear of making things worse.
It was true though. She did love me. She just didn’t know it or wouldn’t admit it. She had to love me. What else was there for her to feel about me? I refused to believe she didn’t. I was the last person to see her cry, to kiss her forehead, and to hold her hand. I didn’t mind that though. I wanted to be her last everything. Shit, I hated feeling like this. I didn’t want to be this cliche guy who said corny phrases to seem like some deep person. I was about as deep as a shower. And I assumed that’s what she liked about me too. I made her think less. Maybe my dense character made her seem smarter.
But that didn’t matter. I liked hearing her thoughts even if I didn’t understand them half the time. She just wanted to talk. And all I wanted to do was listen.
I guess that was our whole relationship. And I wouldn’t have changed it for anything.