“I’m so
sorry about what happened.”
“You
poor thing, I’m always here to talk if you need.”
“If
there’s anything you need give me a call.”
Meaningless
words flooded the room as if to fill the space, as if to colour in the hole
that grew in the pit of my stomach. They weren’t really sorry. That was just
what they said – what everyone said, what they had to say. Were they sorry for
the black dress that hung like a cloak from my slouched shoulders? Or were they
worry for the lack of tissues because I’d use them to wipe my tears? They asked
me to talk, to give them a call if I ever needed anything. But would they be
able to give me the one thing, the only thing, I needed? Would they bring him
back? Would they even listen to my guilt-filled words, my cracked sentences and
my deep breaths in an attempt to keep everything locked inside of me? The
sorrow, the anger, the constant wishing that I could rewind that night. Would
they listen to the whole story or tune out at the parts I needed to say the
most? Would they believe me when I told them it was my fault? Would they
comfort me or convince me that the truth wasn’t really true? I needed their
words even less than they needed mine. They knew nothing. They didn’t know that
I’d been the one to suggest late night smoothies. That was me. Would I tell
them? The street was busy, too busy. Would I tell them that I’d been sitting in
the back seat? I didn’t see the car. Neither did he. He didn’t swerve. He didn’t
even scream. Would I tell them about the hospital and the lingering scent of
coffee on every corner? I’d start telling them what it felt like to explain, to
explain what we were doing, to explain why. I’d wanted blueberry and apple
flavour that night. The thought did nothing but sicken me now.
They
would hear, but they wouldn’t listen. Not really, not the way I needed them to.
Their words meant nothing. Their apologies shot right through me. Just like the
car shot through my father.
