Book Of Narratives

New Years Day

Warning:
There is a topic in this narrative which is different and unlike any other narrative I have written on here so far. Which has a mention of suicide So, if you are disturbed by that, then you can skip this one.

**

There is nothing but utter silence throughout Trafalgar square as the remaining minutes of the year are displayed hugely upon the large projector screen. No scuttle of leaves, no flutter of trees, no buzzing of bees. Utter Silence.

Natures calling to remain quiet and still.

Time seems to come to a standstill, as anticipation and impatience and desperation settles the surroundings. People hold their breath, a silent yet effective and commanding compulsion, forcing them to swallow down their nerves.

The cloudless sky, a diluted red colour, is a sudden reminder of this very day, two years ago. A day of which I wish and hope endlessly, for my mind to forget. A reminder that nothing ever lasts. Not power, not friendships, not life.

It was a day that changed me for the worse, an unforgettable experience. An unwanted memory.

Walking down the street from a busy day at work, I had a light spring to my step, as I skipped lightly across the road. I had a wide vibrant smile on my face; that anyone would be able to tell from miles away-even with no smile- that I was full of glee, with the bright and cheerful aura that was about me.

I was on my way home.

My muscles were achy and sore from all the grafting I did -it didn't dampen my mood, only something very serious would- as I worked as a mechanic, and while it was an unusual job for a girl, I loved it; fixing cars, tuning vans, oiling motorbikes, etcetera. I just loved my job.

Coming to a stop at the entrance to Queen's Park, I got this sinking feeling in my stomach, a feeling that I would dread the next few moments of my life.

I ignored it, and instead I focused on my short and peaceful journey home.

The wind whipped past me in waves, delicately cooling my skin, chilling my body. I felt nervous almost. As if something terrible was soon to approach.

I shouldn't have ignored my gut.

In the houses I passed, bright white, blue and green lights flashed and winked like a camera, fluttered like a butterfly. Christmas was over days ago, but the decorations will stay up until at least the middle of January.

I felt a vibration in my pocket, bringing out my phone, and noticed my best friend calling me.

I smiled.

Yet, what I heard over the phone, chilled me, I was shocked, causing my smile to fade. Those words she said, shattered my heart, tainted me, and a flash of menacing fear shot through me in painful waves.

'I-I cannot cope. It hurts, and I want to go away from this pain. It's too much for my body and my mind. I-I need to...sleep. I...I just...I just cannot cope.'

Scared that those were the last words in which we part, caused me to go in a sprint to home, influenced me to take large steps to get to her, pumping huge amounts of adrenaline through my heart and my lungs.

It persuaded me to go to her, to save her from this burden.

However, by the time I got to my home, which is also her home, the feeling of dread washed over me once more, shocking me to the core. I was in pain. But, it wasn't mine.

Stacey.

Opening the door of my flat, I sprinted in, before stopping in shock. My eyes widened considerably. Red, the colour of a rose, were painted across my vision. Too vivid, too memorable, too painful. It was as if looking at a bad painting, the proof of something that had gone terribly wrong.

Yet, it wasn't my vision, it was everywhere. And when I say everywhere, I mean everywhere. On the floor, on the walls, on the furniture; and a clear red path of footsteps that led to the bathroom, where a larger, more imprinted pool of blood, surrounded a disfigured body, almost unrecognisable: even to my eyes.

But, I knew.

In a sudden cry of pain, I had scurried to the body absolutely drenched in blood, the body of my friend, I took hold of her face, clutched her tightly, in a hope against hope, that she would wake up.

But no.

She was dead.

I was too late.

Seeing a flash of white in my peripheral vision, I turned my face to see a piece of paper, written with the messy and dyslexic scrawl of her handwriting. I read the contents of the sheet, before I scrunched it to a ball and tossed it to the wall.

A suicide note.

The only evidence of her pain.

A tear rolls smoothly down my cheek and jaw, as I recall that terrible and unforgettable day, two years ago, a day at which is supposed to be the start of new beginnings, a new you.

That is certainly true.

Because since that tragic and traumatic day, it caused a change in me, a sudden and unexpected change, that no one; not my family or my other friends, had estimated to happen.

It changed the way I am, changed how I live, and how I look at life.

Maybe it's a good thing, or maybe it's a bad thing, but I have changed.

Because of Stacey, I have changed.