by K. A. Hobbs
“You can’t, Imogen. You can’t,” he tells me softly.
“Yes, I can,” I yell, tears running down my face. “I was right there. I could see her. Let me go back.”
“No.” He glares at me. “You’re forbidden. We’re all forbidden. Do you not think we’d all love to go back? Do you truly believe you’re the only person who is hurting?”
“No.” I sniff, wiping at my eyes. “But I don’t care about them. I care about me. I care about Olivia. I want to go back. Give me one good reason why I can’t.”
I’m hysterical. I’ve taken leave of all my senses, yelling like a deranged woman, and I couldn’t care less.
“You just can’t, Imogen,” he says calmly.
“But why?” I yell back, the anger I feel getting the better of me.
“You just can’t. It’s the rules. You have to follow them.”
“I don’t see why. I’m miserable here. It hurts so much knowing I can be close to them but not to her.”
“I know you’re hurting. I know yesterday—”
“It has nothing to do with yesterday,” I scream, my cheeks wet and the wind blowing my hair all over the place. “It has nothing to do with anything except that I don’t want to be here.”
“It’s just how it has to be,” he almost whispers.
“No.” I push past him and he staggers to the left. “It doesn’t.”
He reaches out for my hand and tugs me to look at him. “Do you want to know why you can’t see her?” He glares at me again, two pink splotches on his cheeks from anger, his usual patience with me all but vanished.
“Yes.”
“Put yourself in her shoes. Imagine walking down the street and bumping into your dead sister. Imagine opening your front door to see her standing there. How would you react?”
I flinch at his bluntness and tears pool in my eyes. “I can’t…”
He regrets the words the minute they leave his mouth; I can tell, but it’s too late. They’re out now and he can’t take them back.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
He tries to wrap me in his embrace, but I fall to the ground before he has a chance. The pain I feel… it’s like nothing I have ever experienced. The pain of drowning, the pain of death suddenly seems like nothing.
“It’s the truth, though, isn’t it?” I sob.
He comes closer, dropping to his knees in front of me, and holds my face in his hands, his thumbs wiping away the tears steadily falling down my face. “It is. I’m so sorry but it is. And if you want any chance at having a good life here, you have to listen to me when I tell you to stop. I do it to help you. I do it for you. It’s always, always for you.”
I shake my head, sending a downpour of tears over both of us, “It’s a stupid unfair rule. Why torture me more than I already have been? Why send me back there if I can’t go find her? She doesn’t have to see me. I just need to see her.”
He leans forward and kisses my wet cheeks. “We both know you wouldn’t have the self control to stop yourself from talking to her. No one would. You’d cause her immeasurable pain. You’d rip open the wounds she’s working so hard to heal. It might seem harsh, Imogen, but it’s kinder in the long run. They have to learn to live without you, and you have to learn to live without them. I know you’re in pain. I know it’s killing you all over again, but you’re stronger than this. You’re stronger than anyone I know. And as for why you’re being sent back… Imogen, you’re there to help people who need you because you have the biggest heart and the most compassion and empathy of any person I have ever met. You’ve been given a gift, and whether it feels like it or not right now, it’s one you’ll be eternally grateful for one day, I promise you.”
He leans forwards and rests his forehead against mine, taking a deep breath as if to steady himself. “I know it hurts. I’ve been there. But trust me on this: this way is better than nothing.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to stop the grief from taking hold. Nothing has ever felt so excruciating.
I want to feel numb again.
When I open my eyes, George is gazing at me with pain and anguish in his expression. He leans closer, pressing the softest, most gentle kiss to my lips before he whispers words I have to strain my ears to hear,
“I missed people, too. I waited a long time to see them and when I did, nothing was like I thought it would be. And they were destined for a different place. But you can see them again, when it’s their time. You’ll see them again and that will be the most phenomenal thing you’ll ever experience. Until then, though, you have to live, Imogen. You have to help. You have to learn to be the you you are now, even when it hurts… especially when it hurts. We’re here to guide you. I’m here to help you. You just have to let me.”
Silence.
I never knew it could be so loud. As I wander from room to room in my empty house, the deafening quiet cuts through me like a piercing wail, making me cringe and scamper back to the comparative safety of my bed, where I can draw the covers over my head and float away on my own imagination.
I’ve tried listening to music to fill the gaps Imogen left behind after papering over the cracks in my life for weeks. But every song, every note I hear seems to hold a whole world of memories, determined to destroy me.
The silence is agony, but music is torture.
I can almost hear the piano downstairs calling to me, luring me back to its comforting ivory keys where I was once able to lose myself in endless melodies. The instrument was always an escape, a way to forget about the things that troubled me back when the things that troubled me were trivial, like deciding whether to spend my Christmas money on new tyres or a new musical instrument, or how to get out of going for dinner at my mother-in-law’s place.
Back then, I had no idea that there are some things even music can’t fix—some wounds that cut so deep that they refuse to stop bleeding no matter how hard you try to run from them.
I miss Imogen. I miss Ben. I miss the person I was when I was with them.
I’m concerned for Immy. Guilt at missing how much pain she must have been in all along is eating me alive slowly, from the inside out.
So much guilt.
Every day, the silence forces me to confront the feelings I’ve suppressed for so long: the pain of losing the only person in my life I’ve ever truly given my heart to, the guilt at being the reason he’s gone, the agony of the memories that plague me each time I close my eyes, the shame at not being a better friend to Imogen and the abject self-hatred at the knowledge that my heart unwittingly skips a beat each and every time Seb’s name is mentioned.
What sort of person that makes me, I try not to think about.
When Ben died, I tried so hard to be okay that, somehow, I managed to convince myself that I was. I forged forwards each day, throwing myself back into work and trying to pretend that everything was still the same. Each night, I’d go home and somehow convince myself that he’d be there, scribbling away at his usual sheafs of paper, surrounded by balled up pages of wasted ink in his search for the perfect combination of words to set people’s souls on fire.
And then along came Imogen, a perfect distraction from everything that was missing. A sticking plaster to cover the gaping wounds in my life with her cheerful demeanour and constant playfulness. With her, pretending was easier. Perhaps, at times, I wasn’t even pretending. Happiness became a real, live concept, something that was no longer a distant memory.
Now, though, I’m having is glad school has restarted. At least that keeps me busy for eight hours a day. It forces me to get out of bed and leave the house occasionally, something I haven’t done much of since Imogen left.
I want to know how she’s doing, whether she’s okay and whether George is looking after her like he promised me he would. But, friend of the year that I am, I’ve written out and deleted hundreds of messages, each one more awkwardly worded than the last. The fact is, I have no idea what to say to her—what to writ
e to try to make it better. I don’t even know what she’s going through. For somebody as keen to extract painful life stories from others, she’s been remarkably tight-lipped about her own. Perhaps I should have tried harder to get her to speak.
Rolling onto my back with a huff, I throw the duvet down from over my face and glare daggers at the ceiling. Do I spend another hour staring at the blinking cursor on my phone only to hurl it at the wall all over again when I fail to think of anything insightful to say? She’s my best friend. Surely any message at all is better than silence?
Sighing, I grab my phone off the bedside table and stare at the blank message screen, waiting for divine inspiration. Half an hour later, lightning still hasn’t struck and the cursor is still blinking at me, taunting me with the pure white space where the words should be.
Why is this so hard?
It should be easy to speak to my best friend, shouldn’t it? When it comes to friends, I’m not sure the words you use matter. Reaching out is the key, letting them know that you care. I lost count of the number of times I lay in bed being torn apart by my grief and wishing that somebody, anybody, would come and save me from drowning. Silence never saved anybody. Perhaps all she needs is for me to be there, to send words, any words, to tell her I’m thinking of her.
Sucking in a deep breath and having a stern word with myself about the very overthinking Imogen has been trying to break me of, I tap out just three simple words and press send before I can second guess myself.
Love you, Immy x
I don’t expect a reply. Her phone is probably the last thing on her mind right now, but I feel a certain amount of relief just having sent it.
Just as the phone starts to send threatening messages about the battery level, I stuff the charger in and abandon it in favour of my grumbling stomach that thinks my throat has been cut. The fridge doesn’t yield much in the way of mouth-watering treats—situation normal—and I amuse myself briefly with the look I know would be on Imogen’s face right now seeing the state of the empty shelves.
I’m hardly an expert on the subject, but perhaps that’s what friendship is—yelling at one another for not taking care of themselves and making one another laugh when the world caves in.
Moving on to the cupboards, all I find is a can of beans I’m pretty sure was around when Noah was sailing, and some very iffy-looking bread that looks more like a science experiment than food.
Sighing, I slam the cupboard shut and cling on to the handle, resting my head against my bicep and letting out a pained groan. If I’m going to satisfy the beast grumbling in my stomach, I’m going to have to leave the house. And, God, I can think of at least a million things I’d rather do right now.
Each time I near the front door, my heart races, and I feel like the ocean will come crashing through the door and swallow me whole. Perhaps there’s a small part of me that still wants it to.
Edging into the hallway, I stare at the door warily. It seems bigger than the last time I saw it. It seems to loom over me like a giant spectre, tormenting me with my own failure as I back away slowly until I crash my hip into the telephone table and squeak as sharp pain cuts into my skin and the whole thing topples over with a crash, sending the phone skittering one way and the junk mail I’ve accumulated flying all over.
A single piece of paper flutters to the floor face-up beside me, taking an age to land, and glares at me with the untidy scrawl of a doctor’s handwriting.
I stare back while my teeth chatter with anxiety, and my heart attempts to break free of my chest with it’s relentless hammering against my rib cage. My eyes blur, the words on the paper coagulating into a single lump of black as I battle with the sudden need to not be alone.
“Phone,” I mutter to myself as I drop to my knees with a painful thump. “Where…?”
With the piece of paper clutched in my hand, I scrabble around on the floor, searching for the damn thing, sending credit card applications, dodgy takeaway menus and political pamphlets flying all over until my fist finally closes around the clapped out old phone.
Collapsing back against the floor in relief, I suck in a few short, sharp breaths, trying to dislodge the elephant that’s made itself at home on my sternum as my shaky fingers attempt to unscramble the chaotic numbers on the paper and tap them into the phone. It takes three attempts before I hear ringing on the other end and allow my head to fall back to the floor.
With each ring, I grow more and more convinced that he’s not going to answer until after the sixth, a gruff voice mumbles a hello.
Oh, God, I’ve woken him up. He’s probably worked an insanely long shift and finally got to bed only for a crazy person to call him. I don’t even know what time it is. Is it the middle of the night? How is it possible not to know that? What kind of idiot doesn’t know if it’s day or night? He’s going to think I’m losing the plot. What do I say?
“Hello?” he says again, his voice clearer now. I can picture him, all messy curls and sleepy green eyes, stretching that long, firm torso of his as he yawns.
“Uh…”
Another groundbreaking speech from Molly Sparrow there. Way to make yourself look like a lunatic, Moll.
I can hear rustling and a small cough followed by creaking that confirms my suspicions. He was in bed.
I try again. “Hey.”
There’s a sharp intake of breath down the line, and I picture his chest rising and falling and try to match my breathing to the rhythm in my head.
“Molly? Is that you?”
“I…” I drag in a breath and expel it as slowly as I can. “Yes.”
“Are you alright?”
“Not… so… much,” I force out between breaths, clutching the phone in a death grip and trying to count the ancient artex blobs on the ceiling.
“What’s happened? Are you hurt?” His words hitch, as though he’s trying to do something as he speaks.
“N-no, not hurt.”
“Okay,” he says in that soft, doctor’s voice of his. “I want you to sit tight. I’m on my way, okay?”
I nod in reply, not even caring that he can’t see me. From the loud clicking sound in the background, I’d say he’s already out the door. The line goes dead and I wait, still counting those blobs over and over again as my mind spins out of my control.
It hurls my failures at me so thick and fast that I curl into a ball on the ground, my knees pulled tightly into my chest.
Failure.
Useless.
Alone.
I try to block out the cacophony of inadequacy by covering my ears with my hands, but you can run away from just about anything except yourself. My own mind has become my worst enemy, and it feels like a battle I’ll never be able to win.
Murderer.
It’s the quietest word of all, yet it slices me in two, the weight on my chest doubling as I screw my eyes tightly closed as though that can stop the memories from attacking me.
Shattered glass. Blood. Screaming. The acrid smell of impending death. It’s all there in my own personal hell, tearing at the last shreds of my sanity.
“Molly.”
Smashing. Cutting. Bleeding.
“Molly!”
Pressure on my shoulder joins the weight on my chest and I cry out, trying to pull free.
“Easy…” The touch leaves me and I shudder and curl myself tighter. “Molly, it’s just me. It’s Seb. I need you to open your eyes for me.”
His voice is firm, like I’ve never heard it before. His tone brooks no argument, and in that moment, it’s exactly what I need.
My eyes open at his command and I’m met with his concerned scrutiny, piercing through me as confident hands reach out and tuck my birds nest hair behind my ears, his fingers lingering over my cheeks, his touch whisper-soft as he murmurs soothing words to me.
One hand drops to my wrist, gripping it firmly, his fingers dipping in to my pulse point as his lips silently keep count of my racing heartbeats.
“Ooookay,” he says almos
t indulgently. “Come here.” He follows his words by taking hold of each of my hands with his, his skin sending tingles through mine, and tugs me upright so quickly my head spins.
Before I have time to properly register the change of position, my hands are cold and abandoned and he’s gone from my sight. Panic hits for just a moment until I feel first his hands on my shoulders and then his entire body sliding in behind mine and pulling me back against his chest with a grip that allows me no protest. He’s completely taken charge of the situation, his absolute confidence inspiring mine, and I fall back against him with a mixture of hope and relief.
“Feel my breaths,” he says softly while his hands slide down my legs to take mine, our fingers tangling. “I want you to match yours to them. Slow it down. You’re having a panic attack.”
I don’t know why him putting a name to what I’m experiencing helps, but the way he doesn’t even flinch at how tightly I’m gripping his hands and his voice doesn’t waver as he speaks has me throwing all my faith into him in a way I’ve never done in my life before.
I can feel his heart beating against my back, slow and steady, in control. Nothing fazes him. Slowly, I try to match my breathing to his, listening to the gentle lilt of his voice as he talks nonsense to me, his deep velvet tones somehow chasing away the demons that were attacking me until my head lolls back against his chest and my fingers loosen their grip on his.
“You came,” I finally whisper when the world has tilted back onto its axis and the oxygen has returned into the room.
“I’ve got you,” he says in a hushed tone.
I can feel his steady breaths against the exposed skin of my neck as he leans in and holds me tighter to him.
Silence descends over us, wrapping us up like a blanket as we simply sit and breathe together for the longest time. He doesn’t appear to feel the slightest bit awkward, quite content to stay right where he is, his fingers stroking leisurely over mine. The quiet ought to be heavy, filled with embarrassment and questions, but the air of calm he carries around with him is infectious, and before long, my entire body has relaxed into his.
