Forgotten

My Death

Whenever I reach into the fridge to get a can of Pepsi, I get so close to picking it up and then remember I can’t drink, I can’t eat.  My whole body has shut down, my digestive system, my lungs; I have no breath and maybe that’s why I haven’t faded off of the mirror yet, because I was never there.  I have no body heat, no blood that isn’t dry, no heartbeat; I am literally just a shell.  Any injuries are permanent, I don’t heal, and any bruises will be tattooed on my skin forever, bones will stay splintered and broken, cuts will stay open.  I can’t commit suicide to end this pain because I’m already dead. 

The day was cloudy, gloomy: a typical British summer, rain every day.  My mum and I were driving to the campsite we always went to, just outside of Cornwall but still down by the beach.  The beach outside ran parallel to the campsite and it was stunning: above the tide-line the grey rocks are gorse-yellow, discolored by the salt in the water, with close growing lichen, and with others of blue-black and a vivid salmon pink.  Beneath that were the orange-browns and sienna’s of wrack weeds, the violet of mussel-beds, dead white sand, and water through which one sees down to the bottom, as though it were glazed with a pale-green bottle glass, to where starfish and big spiny urchins of pink and purple rest upon the broad leaves of the sea tangle.  Waves would crash over the sand spreading a lacy foam like the edge of a petticoat.  The ocean wind blew in bitter gusts, tangling my hair behind me.  The salty air always lay thickly on my lip and tongue, filling my nostrils.  I now cherish the facts I committed myself into remembering every final detail, I never wanted photographs I wanted scents and seashells, the feel of the rough sand between my toes; I wanted to always remember the clarity and silk-like smoothness of the ocean.  I knew from those moments I would never stop dreaming about the beach by the campsite and wishing to go there.

We always brought the same tent, to me it was like my own small house, I was shielded by the dull green fabricated sides, enclosed with zips and buttons, mosquito nets guarding us.  No matter how tight we tried to pull the ropes they always ended up slack and unsatisfactorily loose and weak.  Somehow one of us would end up getting our hair caught in the zipper, or tripping over the guidelines.  We would collect bits of driftwood up off the beach for the fire we had outside our tent; the driftwood edges were rigid and the pattern swirled like your morning coffee.  My mum always used to say it was a sculpture carved by the ocean and deposited on the sand like a present.  The pieces were always sun-bleached cream after maybe months or years of floating in the salty brine.  It was always as if by traveling in the ocean the wood had traded its’ majestic browns for that of a dull faded cream, embedded within the wood was the smell of salt and the beach; it may have been cruel to burn such a characteristic piece when it had only just reached land again. 

The flames would always leap, twist and twirl in a fiery dance; it always played among the kindling before pronouncing into an expansive roar, the wood crackled like an inhuman giggle.  The blazes were yellows, oranges, red, crimson; colors of autumn when the leaves sailed to the ground.  Sometimes the fire would get angry, energy bursting from the enraged flickers and sparks, smoke would rise leisurely drifting off into the indigo of the night.  Sometimes the flame would be but a humble flicker jumping among the bed of embers before it finally rested and went to sleep.

Later we would go to sleep and it would approach rapidly like the fall of an axe, swift and persuasive.  Those unconscious hours where you are oblivious to your surrounding always seemed to pass by too quickly; when the sound is light snores and heavy breathing as your chest rises and falls.  In dreams we have compassion, freedom, love.  Where we visit the ones we’ve lost or who’ve lost us and in those perfect moments I can almost feel human again.  Sometimes we get nightmares where we are visited by pain, memories, reality and death. 

One of the nights when we were camping and everyone else was asleep, I lay there motionless, soundless, breathing, and alive.  I could see glimpses of the moon, discolored through the thin fabric.  In all of the quietness and tranquility there was someone, something outside the tent; rusting and moving.  Voices echoed into my ear and sharp movements and shadows flitted about.  I remember getting up to see which drunk had stumbled upon the wrong tent, I moved silently to the door carefully leaving my sleeping mother to lie there, letting her be submerged in the calmness of her dreams.  I undid the zip soundlessly and slowly, I then crept out into the colors of the night.  The vibrant greens of the grass seemed to linger between bottle green, indigo and violet.  The sky was a dark ocean blue, illuminated by orb-like moon; still everything seemed different, like it was slanted. 

The nights at the campsite were always a robotic cold, teeth chattering blistery wind from the sea would blow over it shaking the tents.  I moved closer to the car looking at my reflection in the windows, I looked rag-like, overtired and drained of all color.  The noises were coming from someone else’s car.  Intrigued I moved closer, trying to get a view of what was going on, I remember vividly the two men, both wearing black, both wearing masks that covered their faces.  I soon realized what was happening, the car was being stolen, hacked and mistreated.  My phone was in my pocket and I automatically dialed 999, but the one person I didn’t see was the one who killed me, the one who stood behind me and shot me; the one who was too much of a coward to not look me in the eye as I died in the grass. 

Pain burned inside of me, plastering me in a throbbing ache.  I gasped at the last breaths of air, sucking them into my lungs and then stuttering them out.  My hand clutched the bloody wound in my chest, clasping it like it was the only life I had left.  The crimson liquid teemed over my body, growing rapidly and dripping down my sides.  By now half the campsite was awake in panic, I heard my mum calling for me, but my murderers had already vanished like there was no one there in the first place. 

“Mum” I screamed as loud as I could.  My throat burned as I did so but it was worth it. 

Immediately she came rushing over, panic arising in her face as she saw me, as she saw the blood covering me.  I heard her mutter something like oh god and shout for help but I was already fading; so I held her hand, telling her I loved her.  The burning was already waning into an icy numbness, my vision was getting blurry.  All I could hear was my own heart beating faintly, slowly.  People started swarming around me but all I wanted was peace and rest, they must have known it was too late for me to be saved; that a mother would lose her 16 year old daughter that night. I listened closely as my fragile heart took one last heartbeat and I was gone.