1 - Contd.
I HADN'T MADE HER WEAR A HELMET. WE NEVER DID. WE WERE YOUNG, DRUNK, INVINCIBLE IN OUR LEATHER JACKETS AND OUR LOST INHIBITIONS AS THE YEAR 2000 ROLLED INTO OUR LIVES. THE MOTORBIKE MADE ITS WAR-CRY AND WE HOWLED ALONG WITH IT, EUPHORIA LIGHT ON OUR BREATHS AS WE SCREECHED AND TWISTED ABOUT CORNERS.
IT WAS ONLY A CAT, ILLUMINATED BY MY HEADLIGHT. THAT NIGHT I EXCHANGED A CAT'S LIFE FOR THAT OF MY GIRLFRIEND, SIXTEEN YEARS OF AGE - OR PERHAPS ALCOHOL MADE THAT DECISION FOR ME. I SWERVED, MET WITH THE TRUNK OF A TREE AND OFF WE WENT THROUGH THE AIR.
THE LAST THING I SAW BEFORE I PASSED OUT WAS HER PALE,PERFECT SKIN, SHINING UNDER THE LIGHT OF A HEADLIGHT. HER ARM WAS BENT AT THE MOST UNUSUAL OF ANGLES AND SHE WAS QUITE, QUITE STILL.
They had told me she was dead, and the guilt tugged down my shoulders every single day of every single month for ten long years. I was not allowed to go to the funeral and they would not tell me where the grave was, so I left the flowers by that tree.
Them.
Her parents. Her father was the one who had called me with a voice made of gravel one evening, telling me how they hoped to never see my face again.
It was ironic that on that Monday as I was walking back to my shitty flat, I saw him. Her father. Perhaps they had moved here with her, to look after her - but the reasons didn't even occur to me until I reached home. I was too distracted by the scalding anger. He saw me and he recognised me just as I was pinning him up against the wall.
'You told me she was dead!'
I HADN'T MADE HER WEAR A HELMET. WE NEVER DID. WE WERE YOUNG, DRUNK, INVINCIBLE IN OUR LEATHER JACKETS AND OUR LOST INHIBITIONS AS THE YEAR 2000 ROLLED INTO OUR LIVES. THE MOTORBIKE MADE ITS WAR-CRY AND WE HOWLED ALONG WITH IT, EUPHORIA LIGHT ON OUR BREATHS AS WE SCREECHED AND TWISTED ABOUT CORNERS.
IT WAS ONLY A CAT, ILLUMINATED BY MY HEADLIGHT. THAT NIGHT I EXCHANGED A CAT'S LIFE FOR THAT OF MY GIRLFRIEND, SIXTEEN YEARS OF AGE - OR PERHAPS ALCOHOL MADE THAT DECISION FOR ME. I SWERVED, MET WITH THE TRUNK OF A TREE AND OFF WE WENT THROUGH THE AIR.
THE LAST THING I SAW BEFORE I PASSED OUT WAS HER PALE,PERFECT SKIN, SHINING UNDER THE LIGHT OF A HEADLIGHT. HER ARM WAS BENT AT THE MOST UNUSUAL OF ANGLES AND SHE WAS QUITE, QUITE STILL.
They had told me she was dead, and the guilt tugged down my shoulders every single day of every single month for ten long years. I was not allowed to go to the funeral and they would not tell me where the grave was, so I left the flowers by that tree.
Them.
Her parents. Her father was the one who had called me with a voice made of gravel one evening, telling me how they hoped to never see my face again.
It was ironic that on that Monday as I was walking back to my shitty flat, I saw him. Her father. Perhaps they had moved here with her, to look after her - but the reasons didn't even occur to me until I reached home. I was too distracted by the scalding anger. He saw me and he recognised me just as I was pinning him up against the wall.
'You told me she was dead!'
