We Were Young
Entry by: Sirona
13th August 2015
Empty Heart
‘RIP Sarah, can’t believe this has happened.’ I stare at the words, and shock hits me like a blast of frigid air. It feels unreal. This isn’t how you learn about a close bereavement; a policeman is supposed to knock at your door and prepare you with sombre face and expressions of regret, or the phone should ring in the wee small hours shattering the silence like a banshee. You’re not supposed to learn that a friend has died from their Facebook wall.
They can’t be talking about you, you were never Sarah to me; you were Bernie and I was Lennie. Two girls in a man's world, I’d already earned acceptance by describing the function of an engine management unit to a customer when one of the mechanics told me excitedly about the new girl, who knew all the part numbers by heart. I made an excuse to visit your department, our eyes met and I felt something click.
‘I miss our chats. RIP hunny.’ It isn’t a joke then, you really are gone. I blink to clear my vision and scan the messages for some clue as to what has happened. I wonder if it was a car crash, or a motorbike accident perhaps? I remember a photograph you’d shared, you were standing by a motorbike that gleamed in the sun, but your smile was brighter.
You smiled as you told me your boyfriend thought I was a bad influence. Was I? I remember the Christmas Party, we drank a few bottles of cider and he thought you were trying to keep up with me. Were you? We danced, we sang, we laughed and we didn’t care what the management thought. We were young and confident, or maybe we were just playing dress up. You made me brave, did you know that? The twinkle in your eye encouraged me to do and say things that my timid soul would have never considered. Was your boyfriend was right, did I do the same for you?
‘Can’t believe it. I hope he burns in hell.’ Something cold grabs my stomach and twists it. I don’t want to read more, but I can’t help myself. I scroll down your wall but it’s all vague, no facts, and I am all a-whirl with fear and need solid facts to cling to. Shaking fingers type your name into Google, and long seconds later there is that same photograph of you next to the motorbike. The wind has caught your hair and the sun burns through it like a halo. The headline reads ‘Local woman stabbed to death’. I close my eyes but it does no good, I can still read it and even the hot tears don’t wash the words away.
My happiest memories are of our trips to Blackpool, hopping into your convertible and bombing up the motorway, chain smoking and giggling at articles in Cosmo. We weren’t Cosmo girls, I’m not sure why we even had the magazine. We never booked ahead, just hoped one of the cheap B&B’s would have space for us. One weekend we were in our leather jackets and jeans, rock chicks, and the stereotype of a seedy hotelier barked there was only a double available from between cigarette clenching lips. We didn’t mind, and her expression left us in no doubt she thought we were a couple; we didn’t care, it was another excuse for laughter.
‘Police say they were called to the house at 8pm Saturday. Paramedics took the woman to hospital, but were unable to save her.’ I wish I could deny this, that it was all a case of mistaken identity but I can’t. It is your local paper. It is your name. The man they have arrested was your boyfriend. Oh, Bernie.
The last time we met was by the sea. You sat down opposite me in a Cafe, our eyes met and I felt something click. It had been years since we’d last met, months since we’d last talked, but I didn’t feel the distance, only a bubble of joy that my friend was here. We shared our stories while my three year old son played beside us. You were the first person who learnt he was to have a sister. Your story unfolded too, and your eyes sparkled and your smile was wide but looking back I hear a discordant note in the telling. A guilty sense that I should have known what was coming.
‘She’s been on at me,’ he said, when police asked him what happened. The Judge didn’t believe his story of an accident, the long and well documented history of domestic abuse rendered that a lie that even a child could not expect to get away with. Life, to serve at least 17 years. ‘His final attack left her with no blood in her body.’
My heart echoes the wound that ended you. I know it will heal. I know it will scar. I struggle against imagination, a vision of you slumped on the kitchen floor, feeling your life slip away with only your killer for company. As your heart emptied, did your soul fly to your children?
I stop myself. I want to look back, to the joy of you. The laughter on your face, the challenge in your voice, the world at your feet. I will think of you smiling, dancing, raising a bottle of cider. I will not think of the ending, but of the beginning: When we were young.
‘RIP Sarah, can’t believe this has happened.’ I stare at the words, and shock hits me like a blast of frigid air. It feels unreal. This isn’t how you learn about a close bereavement; a policeman is supposed to knock at your door and prepare you with sombre face and expressions of regret, or the phone should ring in the wee small hours shattering the silence like a banshee. You’re not supposed to learn that a friend has died from their Facebook wall.
They can’t be talking about you, you were never Sarah to me; you were Bernie and I was Lennie. Two girls in a man's world, I’d already earned acceptance by describing the function of an engine management unit to a customer when one of the mechanics told me excitedly about the new girl, who knew all the part numbers by heart. I made an excuse to visit your department, our eyes met and I felt something click.
‘I miss our chats. RIP hunny.’ It isn’t a joke then, you really are gone. I blink to clear my vision and scan the messages for some clue as to what has happened. I wonder if it was a car crash, or a motorbike accident perhaps? I remember a photograph you’d shared, you were standing by a motorbike that gleamed in the sun, but your smile was brighter.
You smiled as you told me your boyfriend thought I was a bad influence. Was I? I remember the Christmas Party, we drank a few bottles of cider and he thought you were trying to keep up with me. Were you? We danced, we sang, we laughed and we didn’t care what the management thought. We were young and confident, or maybe we were just playing dress up. You made me brave, did you know that? The twinkle in your eye encouraged me to do and say things that my timid soul would have never considered. Was your boyfriend was right, did I do the same for you?
‘Can’t believe it. I hope he burns in hell.’ Something cold grabs my stomach and twists it. I don’t want to read more, but I can’t help myself. I scroll down your wall but it’s all vague, no facts, and I am all a-whirl with fear and need solid facts to cling to. Shaking fingers type your name into Google, and long seconds later there is that same photograph of you next to the motorbike. The wind has caught your hair and the sun burns through it like a halo. The headline reads ‘Local woman stabbed to death’. I close my eyes but it does no good, I can still read it and even the hot tears don’t wash the words away.
My happiest memories are of our trips to Blackpool, hopping into your convertible and bombing up the motorway, chain smoking and giggling at articles in Cosmo. We weren’t Cosmo girls, I’m not sure why we even had the magazine. We never booked ahead, just hoped one of the cheap B&B’s would have space for us. One weekend we were in our leather jackets and jeans, rock chicks, and the stereotype of a seedy hotelier barked there was only a double available from between cigarette clenching lips. We didn’t mind, and her expression left us in no doubt she thought we were a couple; we didn’t care, it was another excuse for laughter.
‘Police say they were called to the house at 8pm Saturday. Paramedics took the woman to hospital, but were unable to save her.’ I wish I could deny this, that it was all a case of mistaken identity but I can’t. It is your local paper. It is your name. The man they have arrested was your boyfriend. Oh, Bernie.
The last time we met was by the sea. You sat down opposite me in a Cafe, our eyes met and I felt something click. It had been years since we’d last met, months since we’d last talked, but I didn’t feel the distance, only a bubble of joy that my friend was here. We shared our stories while my three year old son played beside us. You were the first person who learnt he was to have a sister. Your story unfolded too, and your eyes sparkled and your smile was wide but looking back I hear a discordant note in the telling. A guilty sense that I should have known what was coming.
‘She’s been on at me,’ he said, when police asked him what happened. The Judge didn’t believe his story of an accident, the long and well documented history of domestic abuse rendered that a lie that even a child could not expect to get away with. Life, to serve at least 17 years. ‘His final attack left her with no blood in her body.’
My heart echoes the wound that ended you. I know it will heal. I know it will scar. I struggle against imagination, a vision of you slumped on the kitchen floor, feeling your life slip away with only your killer for company. As your heart emptied, did your soul fly to your children?
I stop myself. I want to look back, to the joy of you. The laughter on your face, the challenge in your voice, the world at your feet. I will think of you smiling, dancing, raising a bottle of cider. I will not think of the ending, but of the beginning: When we were young.
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