Author S. K. Nicholas

It’s been a couple of years since I last visited Bethany, and the guilt at having not been up there since is one I can’t shake off. Not going to her resting place puts me in an uneasy state of being, and yet the idea of visiting her leaves me feeling cold. Despite the passing of years, her beauty has never left, for it bubbles away in my blood, but I just can’t bring myself to tend to her grave. Maybe it’s because Sarah and I don’t speak anymore, and that going to see her without Sarah just wouldn’t feel right. Or perhaps it’s to do with not wanting to sit there staring at damp soil and empty plant pots thinking of what could’ve been. Despite her death, in my mind, she represents hope. In reality, though- in the cold light of day- she’s gone. She never was. My life revolves around fantasy, and yet no amount of make believe will ever change her outcome. Perhaps I’m trying to avoid the harsh truth, or I’m just making excuses because I’m a sack of shit. Thinking it over, there are no answers. A few weeks back, I almost got a taxi up to the cemetery. I was so close to sitting next to her and telling her how I felt while tending to her little spot, but I bottled it at the last minute. It’s a strange dance, almost comical. Everything about this life is just ridiculous, and the older I get, the less anything seems to make sense. If it weren’t so awful, it would almost be funny. Sometimes there’s hope, and then the next minute, all I can do is shake my head wishing for the end. But when the end comes near, I cling onto life by the scruff of the neck and plead with the heavens to keep me safe from the fury of the night. What a mess this is. With mistakes every which way you turn, all you can do is keep going in the absurd belief that things will get better. I’m sure she would agree.