Letters To Lily

Letter No. 5

Dear Lily,

I am not surrounded by other people, or by pillows, or by blankets. I'm not surrounded with love and with a forcefield of people there ready to catch me when I fall. I'm not surrounded by anything of much importance.

I'm surrounded by beer bottles.

There's a throbbing in my head, but it's a mere poke compared to the thundering going on in my heart.

I think I got drunk last night, when they showed you again on the television. I can't remember much. All I can remember is bottles upon bottles, and me pressing them to my lips in hope that I could drown this fear before it drowns me.

It didn't work. How I know? Because if anything, I'm more scared of facing the world now more than ever.

I got fired yesterday, I think, because I wasn't happy enough and my 'mourning break' was over.

I don't think that work ever stops to think that though people are a little less sad, they're never truly over deaths. It's always going to be something lingering on the back of their mind by a thread, and some days it has a better grip than others on the little ledge it holds on to.

I don't know why I write these letters, because I'm going nowhere with them and you're never going to read them. I guess it just gives me hope.

Lily, right now my head throbs and my heart is being stabbed but that doesn't matter.

When I got drunk, normally you would make me a cup of tea, sit me down and help me through the next day in stride. You would call me in as sick, and take care of me.

Of course, now you're not here and I have to brave the world alone. I can't take a sick day because I don't have a job anymore. I can't drink tea, because we ran out. And I burn myself every time I attempt to make a cup.

I remember that your favourite flavour of tea was Green Tea, as it would remind you of when your Mum would take you to the Chinese Restaurant on the corner of Cheshire Street. I found this weird, especially since your favourite colour was yellow.

You hated daisies and thought that roses, however pretty they were, stunk. You hated the overpowering smell of them. Your favourite flower was a Daffodil. You thought that it was more symbolic than Roses, because you claimed to never believe in love, despite you said you loved me, and you thought that Daffodil Day was very important, as it raised cancer awareness. Your Grandmother died from Cervical Cancer.

Back to the tea.

So now here I sit, drowning my sorrows in the Alcohol, like I once swore I never would do, finding the state of mind to write this to you as I bawl.

I'm sitting on the carpet now, bawling like a baby. A baby deprived of love.

My eyes hurt. My chest is contracting. My heart... My heart has been shattered, and I guess there's not much more to it than that...

All the Love and More,

Andrew.

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