Tuesday, 3 December 2013
05:28:48 PM (GMT)
I have never believed in a Heaven or Hell. I have never been a religious person,
simply for the fact that I could never make sense of it. So naturally, I didn't
believe in any sort of afterlife. Your heart stops beating, your skin turns cold, and
they bury your lifeless body six feet under the dirt; it couldn't be simpler. Death
was never anything more to me than a bittersweet ending to the story of life. I had
embraced the fact that I wasn't going to live forever, and even if I could, I
wouldn't want to. Every good story has to come to an end at some point, right?
Your story ended much too soon, and my god, you were the greatest story that I ever
had the pleasure of experiencing. You were too good to put down, and I held you as
long as I possibly could. I read and re-read the pages of you on a daily basis; I
wanted you to be seemingly never ending, such as a series of books that the author
just couldn’t stop writing.
I remember the first time I saw you. You walked through those double doors on a
scorching August afternoon. You couldn't see me, but I spotted you right off the
No one seemed to notice you standing all alone with your hands in your pockets in the
middle of that crowded room. But I couldn't have missed you if I tried. Your eyes
were what first caught my attention. They were a brilliant icy shade of grey, and
they sparkled like a brand new dime. You were just so lovely; it blew my mind. I
wanted you so insanely bad. Your eyes were scanning the room as if you were intent on
finding something, or someone. I never took my sight off you. Then it happened; your
eyes locked on mine for the first time. In that very moment, you stole my breath and
my heart, and I've never been the same.
It took a lifetime for you to even so much as speak to me. The days turned into
weeks, and the weeks into months, and in that time span I continuously wasted all my
time trying to get your attention again. And you know what finally did it? Singing
and coffee, and maybe that’s why those two things are so important to me. I
I need to go into detail about why, and that’s fine.
It was December, and I was performing in this quaint little coffee house on the
corner of 5th and Stanton. That’s how I spent my Friday nights- on stage, guitar in
my hand, singing to my heart’s content. Somehow you had made your way in there,
which honestly surprised me. It didn’t seem like your scene; you were so quiet and
reserved, and I never saw you out. After my performance, I had sat down to enjoy my
usual peppermint mocha and do a little writing. You approached me and asked if the
other seat at my table for two was taken. I turned slightly crimson, and shyly told
you that no, it was unoccupied.
“You play really beautifully, Jules”, you said. I sipped my steamy latte
(blushing, because no one ever called me Jules, it was always simply Julia) and
quietly said, “Thank you, Josiah.” I was a little baffled as to why you were
paying me any attention, but I was most definitely not going to question it any
longer than needed.
We sat there in the coffee house until it closed, and I remember how you smiled
through the smoke, and laughed at all my jokes. You spoke of all the things that you
were passionate about, which were so different than mine. I was the confused, screwed
up artist, and you were actually going places.
Closing time rolled around, so I excused myself and ran along home. As I laid there
in my bed, staring up at the brilliant tiny blue lights running the perimeter of my
ceiling, I thought about you. I thought about the way that you looked at me in the
dim lights, smirking when I’d say something that you found cute. I thought about
how intensely you spoke of your music, and how you laughed at me when I said that my
dream was to move to Paris, own a coffee shop, and visit every art museum I every
The weeks turned into months, and I quickly fell in love with you. I fell in love
with the way you’d breathe with my head on your chest. The way that you smelled
fresh out of the shower, or after you’d spray on your cologne. I fell in love with
each and every seemingly insignificant part of you and the way that you lived. But
the longer we were together, the more you came to realize that I wasn’t always as
okay as I wanted you to think.
It was September, and I was spiraling downward at a fast pace. You had spent so much
time making me happy that I felt like it would be a good idea to stop taking my
medication. When I stopped taking the pills, I started acting differently. I went
back to cutting, which had always been my crutch before you came along. I didn’t
tell you, of course. I didn’t want you to worry about me, because I have always
been able to take care of myself. I just kept my sleeves down, and my head as high as
October rolled around, and we were spending our Saturday afternoon on the couch,
cuddled up with some hot cocoa and indie flicks. I was moving to reach for my cocoa,
and my sleeve slipped and revealed my self inflicted wounds. You glanced down at
them, and my mind was reeling. I didn’t want you to see, and you did. I just
couldn't get that moment out of my head. You had seen the awful, deep places in my
arm where I tried to hide my pain.
A somewhat distressed expression painted your lovely face. And then it was
just....gone. It reminded me of a flash of lightening during a summer thunderstorm;
the way it appears suddenly, lingering for only a moment, and the sky goes black
again. Just like that.
Like you noticed, and it pained you to see how I had hurt for so long. But I don't
think you wanted me to know that you saw, and that you cared so much. Or maybe it
wasn't distress for me, but for you. Maybe you thought, What in the world have I
gotten myself into?
Or maybe it was neither. Perhaps I'm just some stupid eighteen year old girl who
doesn't know anything. Whatever it is, it doesn't matter. I saw you take a look.
The weeks after that were so hard. You couldn’t look at me the same, and I think
that it was because I hid my pain from you, and we told each other everything. There
was a slight sense of betrayal in your eyes, and it was killing me.
By this point, the fear of losing you had settled in. It's not that I thought you
didn't want to be with me. It was the fact that I can't read you. You’re much like
a closed book….more so like a locked diary found in the charred remains of an old
abandoned house that you're just dying to read, but you can't find the key. You
search and search, but to no avail. The key is hidden in a now non-existent box that
must've perished a hundred years ago, along with the inhabitants of the house. You
can't get in that diary, and you can't get in his mind.
So you lie awake at night, over thinking and stressing and driving yourself to the
point of literal insanity. You start to become less coherent. You begin making rash
decisions, and you eventually lose yourself under the weight of the world.
The first totally rash decision I made, and the one that sealed our fate, was
drinking. I could down a half a bottle of liquor in no time flat, and it turned me
into an angry person. I’d start yelling at you, telling you that it was all your
fault that I felt this way. Saying that you led me to drinking, and telling you how
much I hated you.
You’d just sit there and hold me in your arms, tears streaming down your face,
whispering, “I love you, Jules.” You’d say it over and over again, until I’d
finally break down and begin to sob uncontrollably. I’d express how sorry I was,
and assure you it would never happen again. Against my promises, it did, and it was
on almost an every other night basis.
Then it was February. Things had gotten progressively worse over the last few
months. A night of drinking between the both of us resulted in a heated argument. You
told me that I was psychotic, that you couldn’t deal with my manic episodes
anymore, that you were done. And with that said, you walked out my front door. I
heard your car start up, and I instantly grew terrified. You had been drinking; you
were in no shape to drive.
I ran out the door after you, but you were already heading down the street, a little
too fast, and a little too reckless. I stumbled out onto the pavement as quickly as
my inebriated legs would carry me. It was too late for me to do anything. I glanced
up just in time to see your car crash into the stone wall at the end of our street.
My mouth opened and I wanted to scream, but no sound came out.
I rushed to your car. By the time I got there, the elderly couple down the road had
called the paramedics. They were on their way, and I knew they were going to take you
away. I pushed through the small crowd that had gathered and made my way to your
door. I looked in the window and saw your face against the steering wheel, bathed in
blood. I ripped open your door and pulled you out onto the ground. Your body was so
still. I just kept screaming, “Josiah, Josiah! Oh god, no. Please dear god no. Not
my Josiah. Not my baby.” The tears poured from my face. You were dead. Gone. Never
coming back. I’d never get to hold you again. You’d never kiss me, and I’d
never hear your voice. And the worst part? It was all my fault.