The following; a series of the most recent excerpts from a private journal of 'Harry Rellic', a 22 year old found dead in his apartment this evening. Apparent death by overdose on cyanide.
...
I wake up at ten in the morning to my phone ringing. I pick up, expecting Hannah to be on the other end, but instead I hear her sister, Mary. She is in hysterics. I ask her what the problem is, trying to calm her down; she tells me Hannah is dead.
The impact the sound of those words has on me.
As I hear her scream down the phone, I tell her that I cannot put into words how devastated I am; how upset I am. She hangs up without a goodbye. I lie in bed, paralysed. She's gone. She's actually gone. I don't even cry. I deal with things in my own way, I guess. Always have. As I replay those words in my head again and again, sitting up, I try and imagine Hannah in a coffin, only twenty years old - so young and pretty. I only saw Hannah the other day. It was her birthday. I gave her that bottle of vodka when I got invited to a small get-together she had at her house, with some friends. We sat by a bonfire and she played the guitar and sung. She had such a lovely voice.
I am having difficulty sleeping tonight. I keep remembering that Hannah is dead. I keep seeing her face, her eyes; her smile. Maybe I should put the journal down and try and sleep again.
I really hope no-one reads this but me.
Days have passed. I have nothing to write in here. I'm going to Hannah's funeral tomorrow. Hopefully then I can find some sanity once I know for certain that she is dead. I keep questioning it. I know she is, but I just can't believe that she is gone.
I stand over Hannah's coffin at the funeral, staring down at her in the rain, still completely spellbound. They say that she killed herself. Mary said she found her the following morning, the morning postman arriving a few minutes after discovering them both - apparently she was visiting early to make her some breakfast, in the hope to cheer Hannah up. What a thing to start the day with. I talk to friends and relations and tell them how shocked I am that she killed herself; how much I am grieving her.
I walk around the church, there are so many people there, some I recognize and some I don't. Hannah must have had a lot of people that cared about her. So many names and so many faces I recognize as I venture round; Mary, Joe, Brook, Marcus, it's surprising how many I actually know that were close to Hannah. However, I turn to the back of the room and see a tall figure standing there - a figure that I have not seen before. He is wearing a hood that conceals his face - he keeps very quiet; no-one acknowledges his existence but me. He doesn't move. Do I know him? I ignore the ghostly figure. I do my best to keep others spirits up. We exchange memories of Hannah. The service is nice. I think Hannah would have liked it.
If I don't want to focus on the past I should put the journal down, but I need to make a final note, Hannah. I walk through the streets where you walked. I visit cafés, expecting to catch a glimpse of you. It's so strange, not seeing your face around. You were weak and gentle, but I never thought you would turn to suicide. I wish I had meant more to you. I wish I could have been there as you died, to tell you how I really felt about you. If only I was there to save you, Hannah Montague.
I think that will do.
After the funeral, I decide to invite Joe Caves out for a drink, an old friend who was also at the funeral. Though Joe is quite introverted and reserved, he makes great table conversation and is very faithful - he even supposedly gave a spare house key for his postman to use if the package was too big! That always used to make me laugh. Me and Joe went to the same secondary school and stayed friends even after I changed to college rather than staying on sixth form, like him. Joe didn't know Hannah as well as me, but maybe that helps. The bar is mostly empty, besides a few folk. I hand him a martini for his drink, smiling as I do, buying myself a bottle of wine. As we begin to catch up, I smile. I talk to him about my recent script-writing. Joe says he has a job as a journalist for a local newspaper. Our mutual love for writing always used to keep us close. I smile, telling him I'm happy for him and that I hope it could turn into a very prosperous career - as long he doesn't make more money than me. I tease. I also say that I myself am keeping a journal. He tells me it's good for keeping notes and ideas, if you don't obsess over it.
