Beautiful Tragedies

Five + The Confusion That Follows

         

Five + The Confusion That Follows.

It is as if I'm under that ice in Central Park again. Not knowing if I'm going to resurface, not knowing if I'm going to survive. My lungs burn like they need air, but I'm no longer drowning, it's not the same. I already have drowned. I already have died, I was just witnessed to it.

      They called my time of death. It's real.

But, I still feel trapped. Stuck between thick sheets of ice, with no one around to explain anything to me, to save me.

     Won't somebody just pull me free? Please, pull me free.

In this moment, I feel as juvenile and young as I was back then. I can feel my eyes, wide alert and rimmed with tears. Pleading eyes, asking eyes. Help me.

The road has grown cold beneath me, it's not a sudden change, it has been for some time. It's wet and cold, and for that, I am a little bit thankful. It's the only thing that is keeping me sane, knowing that I'm not completely numb, that I can still feel something - even if that something is just the cold seeping in. It's keeping me sane.

They took my body away some hours ago now, I watched as they stretchered me into an ambulance, no lights, no sirens needed. I was nothing more than a lifeless body with skin the colour of fresh snow.

"Goodbye Felicity Webb, goodbye." I had whispered my voice a clear breath amongst the night. "You're free now." I wanted to continue, but I couldn't. It wasn't true. I'm still trapped, tapped in whatever nightmare this is now.

I haven't moved from where I fell, I haven't had the strength or courage too. I don't want to move, I can't move. I can't.

Slowly, one by one they're leaving. The scene is being packed up around me. Police tape removed, what was left of the crashed cars has been towed away and now they're sweeping up the glass that mingled so closely with my skin as if they were old friends. Twice now I have been walked through, walked through as if I'm only part of the air that engulfs us. Twice. Twice I have been shown that Felicity Webb is nothing.

Each time it happens it's been sickly. A ripple through my chest and a spear through my soul. Something so unnatural, unearthly. It shouldn't be happening. Please don't let it be happening. It can't be happening.

A tear slips down my cheek to join others and I shudder at the near memory, but I barely notice it. The tears have joined part of the constant. I don't know whether they will ever stop. If I told you I rarely ever cried before this night, you wouldn't believe me, but It's the truth. Felicity Webb hates crying. Hated. Felicity Webb hated crying.

     God, what am I?

I back slightly my neck tilted upwards to the sky. I see it's now early morning. The sky is a mix of milky blacks and the colours of first light. A contrast of beautiful pale pinks and lilacs. It has found itself caught in transition, on one side the sun is peeking through the cracks in the clouds, letting itself cast colour, on the opposite side, the sleepy moon slinks down against the buildings, disappearing further and further from sight. I've seen many dawns, but I've never greeted one with such confusion.

It's only when the last of the police and ambulance vehicles clear away that I find myself truly alone and truly afraid. The street is now empty once more, the only reminiscence of what happened some hours before is the chalk markers and missing pieces of glass that glitter under the slowly rising sun. It is as if nothing tragic ever happened here last night. Maybe, a tale for the newspaper, a report from the police. But for me, it has already become a cemented memory, one that I seem to still be living.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a flicker of light. It is then that it dawns on me the street is starting to wake. Lights flicker on in more and more windows along the street. I realise that I can't stay here, I should move. Soon traffic will begin to move along this road and there is nothing stopping it from moving through me too. That ripple of nausea returns instantly at the thought.

With much dread, I stumble to my feet. They feel solid beneath me but I know that's just a lie. A fleeting lie my body tries to convince myself with that I'm okay. I'm not, I have never been. I'm so far from okay at this moment it is laughable.

Felicity Webb died, and I am only what's left of her. A haunting, ghost. A nothing.

I take a few steps forward and then stop. I don't know where to go. I have nowhere to go. I don't belong. I don't- I'm not- "God dammit!" I yell loudly into the street, my hands fisted amongst my hair as I look back to the sky, "What am I? What do you want from me? What do you want?"

     Who are you asking, Felicity? You deserve this. You deserve this.

That little voice of consciousness rings through in my head like it has been doing familiarly so all night, and I know it's right.

      I deserve this.

I absorb as much air into my lungs as I can. They heave amongst my rib cage. Trapped between Ice. And I continue forward.

      I deserve this.

In the end, my destination is nowhere in particular. A few sluggish steps and laboured breaths lead me down an empty alleyway. A place where my thoughts can only bounce off the cold stone walls and shoulder no real damage.

The alleyway, I find, is rather beautiful. It's untypical and silent. The stone beneath my feet is clean, the walls not just decorated with random graffiti but paint splashed in a much more candid motion. Doors line either side in various bright colours, but I get the feeling no one will appear from them. It's as if I've wandered in upon a secret.

Had I not been feeling so weak and confused maybe I would have appreciated the beauty more. But right now, the world only seems bland.

My chest burns tight, my hair clings to my forehead amongst sweat and dry blood, and my stomach lurches in my abdomen. I stumble in further and press myself against a wall. A series of dry heaves and waves of nausea rocking my body. Finally, it's too much and I'm sick. A bile that rises high in my throat and levitates the pressure on my ribs when released.

I sigh and wipe the back of my sleeve against my mouth. My eyes water harder and my body shakes with fatigue beneath me. I move a few feet away and press my back against the cool wall, the opposite. The bricks prick in and press amongst my spine through my thin shirt. Slowly, I sink to the ground, my head resting on my knees. I sob.

      I deserve this.

In my ball of sorrow, I try not to think.

I try not to think about Andrea, her body now in the same cold place as mine. Her life ended so effortlessly, so recklessly, by me.

"I'm sorry," I choke. "So, so sorry."

But I know it won't bring her back, nothing can.

    You deserve this, Felicity.

I try not to think about her children, soon to be woken to the news their mother won't be coming home. Ever. Their little hearts and lives broken, destroyed, by me.

I roll over, and once again I'm sick.

     You deserve this, Felicity Webb. They didn't.

I try not to think about all the other carnage I've caused in my life. All the other unforgivable damages I've caused, the lives ruined. But God knows there is some, so I dwell on that longer too.

I try not to think until thinking is the only thing left to do. Think and cry and grieve. And none of it helps, none of it makes a difference because the damage is done.

Felicity Webb, you deserve this confusion.

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