The place was dead silent.
A bird gave out a sad chirp at a distance.
The soft wind blew and the fallen autumn leaves moved in sync on the ground.
Andrea’s unsteady hand dived deep in the right side pocket of her long charcoal black vintage dress in search of the neatly folded foolscap. She was trying her best to look nonchalant but her watery eyes sold her away. She had been there for her even when her world had turned darkest. She had held her during all her re-lapses when every other person in her life sneered and judged her. She had claimed her so openly and so highly despite all of her flaws and struggles. Then bloody hell, why did she have to leave so early? She was too young to live and die the way she did. So many dreams left unfulfilled, so much words left unsaid, and with too much hurt still scarring the walls of her loving young heart. 28 is not the age we die. It was supposed to be the age we thrived, called upon a thousand stars and lived. She was supposed to LIVE.
At what point was it okay for her to give it all up?
Her eyes finally landed on her lover’s lifeless body lying before her in a simple but nicely crafted wooden boat like a mannequin. She looked peaceful, Kalea, her once nicely tanned brown skin now a pale blue, the colour of death. Her lips had frozen into a half smile. Her left hand had tightly clutched a white rose, stained with her dark red blood, a sign she once lived. The inside of the boat was lined with a turquoise blue silk cloth. Her purely white tunic provided a great contrast to the bright yellow sunflowers and blue lilies surrounding her body. This was how Kalea had always wanted to go, a final sending like in the werewolf classics and novellas.
“If I die young, which I most probably will, lay me down on a bed of sunflowers and sail me down the lake at dawn. Watch my flaming body burn into ash and float away with the waves”
And Andrea had gone to great lengths to ensure her lover had got her last wishes.
She took in a deep breath and finally lifted her face to look at the group of about twenty people standing by the shore. She struggled to read the content of the paper scribbled in Kalea’s own handwriting but it came out as barely a whisper. She cleared her throat and began again.
“If you are hearing this it means you made it to my funeral. Now allow me to tell you a story about my life and more. This was the last thing I did in my miserable life. I wanted it to be the last thing I ever did. Bleed out ink and write my own story. Leave a light on for whoever who might be going through what I did, and also because people are so scared to tell the truth nowadays they would rather write a scripted story about how perfect your life had been. My life was nothing close to perfect, and so was my death. Flaws lined up like constellations.
Despite being a mixed race Muslim child living in a foreign country, I was a lesbian.
From a very young age, I was a target. Susceptible to being hurt, cast aside for being different, and being bullied both physically and mentally. It was a constant battle of me struggling to make everyone around me comfortable with my being different. I had to watch how I spoke and carried myself least I offended someone for not conforming to what was considered normal. Life was a test, and there were a million ways to fail. I remember when I was five and on my way home from school some older man screamed at me “Get your filthy black Muslim ass out of our soil before I call immigration on you.” And he went on to spit on me. I was five, too young to comprehend what the hatred was all about. I still see his face even as I write my last words. The smirk he wore and the coldness in his sunken shamrock green eyes.
The hate we give little infants…
At age 15 I remember coming out to my family and friends that I was gay. It was the hardest thing that I had ever done in my life, but the constant lying to your friends and family is exhausting, almost depressing. I saw the tears well up in her eyeballs, and she wept. My mother wept for me. Fuck. I should have stayed in the damn closet. My father never spoke a word to me again. All he said was that a homosexual daughter was no daughter of his. I thought I knew hurt, but this hurt different. This was not a stranger spitting on me by the road; it was my own birth father rejecting me when his approval is everything I had ever wanted in life.
It’s not the pain. It’s who it came from.
Everything was worse than it was. Words were said. Words that nobody deserved to hear. And it hurts in lots of little subtle ways because words frame how people really feel about you. The hurt then turned in to anger, then sadness that became so overwhelming it was eating me from the inside out. I isolated myself from people, lost a little weight because I was not eating, taught my fading soul how to keep on screaming despite whatever lemons life was feeding me. I became convinced that there was no room for us or we, just I. Lonely, that’s how rock bottom felt, lonely with the only familiar sound being that of your own heart breaking and your eyes dripping in tears. I remember one Friday night overdosing on some expired meds from my mother’s drug cabinet. Even the strong ones have their breaking point, and this was mine. I wanted it all to end, the cruelty, the suffering, the PAIN. I was 17…and I wanted out.
God did come through for me at last. He came in form of Andrea, the love of my life. It was unconditional for us. I had never had someone pick me up and love me hard the way she did. It was surreal. I was the nobody who got the bloody princess at the end, but sadly our story did not end with a happily ever after kiss. You see when all you have known is loneliness and pain; you kind of don’t know how to let it go. I carried all this with me to my 20’s.My little heart was afraid to restart and pick up the shattered pieces. I denied myself heaven. It was never possible for someone like me.
Frantically, I searched for an escape from my own thoughts. ‘I am just going to sniff a bag,’ that is how it started, how it always starts. And for a few hours, I would feel invincible, like I was in another dimension. A dimension where my parents never abandoned me, where I didn’t have to carry the scars of being bullied, where my sexuality and my religion did not make me a target and where people were actually human.
It then progressed to, ‘if you’re going to sniff, you might as well pop it, if you’re going to pop it you might as well as mainline.’ I constantly promised myself that I was going to keep it under control. That I was never going to be one of these drug junkies passed out in the bathroom. That’s what we all think. That it’s just a Saturday thing, a chippie, small habit. It makes you feel so good about yourself you start doing it on Mondays… and Thursdays, then boom! It got you.
It all happens so fast. The next five years of my life were spent in and out of rehab. You try so damn hard to get sober, if not for you at least for the ones you love but then life hits you so much harder the next time and you’re at it again. Every single little thing is a trigger.
I watched her heart break over me for a thousand times and there was nothing I could do about it. I woke up a thousand times in a hospital room because of an overdose. I apologized to myself a thousand times for letting myself down.
I tried. I tried so fucking hard to stop and I lost the fucking battle.
Deep down I knew how it would end for me. A heroine filled syringe deep in my peripheral vein, an empty alcohol bottle by my side, with my little wolf, Andrea hovering over my sweating and shaking body begging me not to let go, to just hold on for a little while longer.
And for one last time, I would remember. I would remember the bully who would lock me in my locker for hours. I would remember my parents casting me out. I would remember every time I was rejected for a job I was well qualified for simply because of my religion. I would remember my attempted suicide at 17. I would remember the guy who spat at me when I was five. I would remember how cold his saliva felt on my forehead. I would remember Andrea, and all her love and how perfect she was. I would REMEMBER, and then my eyes would shut. I would know peace.
Drugs didn’t kill me. It was a cruel world full of hate and discrimination that did.
And that is my truth.
Andrea wiped a tear with the back of her hand.
A sob or two came from the crowd.
Three well built men pushed the boat into the lake.
It sailed gracefully in the calm waters. Keana, the best shooter in the small town of Blue dale kept a tight grip on the bow handle. She dipped the gasoline laced tip of the arrow in the lit bonfire next to her and placed the now flaming arrow on the bow. She turned the bow so that it now lay horizontally with the arrow facing the boat. She positioned her right hand fingers on the string and tucked her shoulder length pink dyed hair behind her left ear. Slowly she returned her left hand on the bow supporting it on its horizontal position and pulled back the string with her magical fingers. Her back muscles slightly twitched.
The arrow hit the lower end of the boat setting it on fire. They watched her body turn into ashes and drift away with the waves. Like the lake itself, there was so much more to Kalea but like most of us are conditioned to do, we only judge based on the surface.
Andrea walked into the lake until the water had covered her head. She felt it suffocate her as it filled her nostrils. She did not want to know how the world would be like without her darling. Her lifeless body floated on the lake and drifted away in the direction of Kalea’s ashes. They would meet on the other side, and they would be happy, forever. Shaking her head back to reality, Andrea pushed away her dark thoughts. she choose to live, if not for Kalea, then for all those lost souls who thought they were nothing more than their mistakes, struggles and differences; For all the people who were cast aside and discriminated upon, maybe because of the colour of their skin, their religion or their sexuality. She chose to live for them, because somebody needed to be there for them and remind them that they were not alone, it gets better. She was going to keep the light on.
She did live long on…and was famously known as the black widow, saviour of cracked souls. The little wolf wasn’t so little after all.
God I have missed you guyyys❤ 😂 I was not actually busy idk what I have been doing with my life, listening to offset and re watching the Originals perhaps?. Sometimes we tend to forget what’s important. Did you enjoy the story?? I would appreciate your feedback so much😊 comment below, like, share, subscribe,do whatever🙌. I love you and thank you for reading!!!