and may was never the same....
i met her when she was seventeen going on forty. she died a little less than a year later. we could always see the pain behind her eyes and the craving behind her smile. it wasn't the drug she couldn't say no to, it was him.
i blamed him full and out right for her death. i cried and cried. when i saw him on the street, i hissed "murderer" through clenched teeth. he couldn't do anything but look on. he came to see us one morning, a few weeks after her death ... "i didn't mean ... she just ... you gotta help me..." my friend glared with tired eyes and said, "you've got to help yourself. if you ever step foot in my direction again, i will kill you."
suddenly we had all been turned into these raving lunatics, because she was just seventeen. because she smiled everyday, even while she cried. because she was an extravagant goth from woburn, mass. because men flocked to her in all seriousness.
when i met her, she was in a group home ... rehabilitating from life, family, and heroin. she was gorgeous, true, and funny as all hell. my boss hired her, knowing all of this, and we all loved her. she danced around to orgy's blue monday. when a customer came up to the counter, her squawking boston accent would command, "what?!" i would just crack up because the fucking customer would just stare at this tiny thing that had such a voice. her voice was loud, apparent, and none other than her own. she was never quiet.
when the evenings waned, she and i would sit on the counter, snack, and share gossip. she would tell me about all the shit her boyfriend put her through, but that she could never leave him. she'd been with him for years. all i could do was shake my head, and say, "honey, you've got so much more." she thought no one would love her ... she thought she wouldn't be wanted... she thought she was lucky.
barely five foot one with long, tar black hair, frighteningly pale skin, and a wardrobe straight from a victorian funeral, she was nothing but striking. yeah, you'd know her if you saw her.
she stopped showing up for work. she had left the home.
one dreary sunday at work, i was doing some menial task .. the phone rang. broken and hollow, her boyfriend asked for my boss. next in charge, i asked what he needed.
she's dead. i just thought you guys should know. she's dead.
i dropped the phone.
her parents, where she spent the weekends, had agreed to let her spend the night at a friend's but she got a hotel room with her boyfriend. he shot her up and then himself. when she asked for pillows, he put some on either side of her head. but when she started to vomit, she couldn't move her head. her boyfriend just stared ... he tossed the stuff and ran ... then he called an ambulance. after.
at the wake, they had taken out her piercings, and her eyebrows weren't high and elaborate any more. she was in a simple dress. but i suppose rituals are for the living?
we clung to each other at the wake. there was a blanket of fear in the room. her family called her misunderstood, youthful, foolish, deserving... but we knew she was tragic. the girls from the group home showed up, and questioned me ... they needed to know how i knew her and how i missed her.
i kneeled down in front of the coffin, "honey, you've got so much more. i'll talk to you soon, and i love you. you don't have to be scared, now."
