Picking it up ever so carefully, avoiding the near blood. She read it slowly, taking in every word. She read and re-read it. Why had I been sorry? She thought, but she knew the answer. I had given her so much grief. I had shouted at her, cried with her and wanted her when she wasn’t near.
“You don’t have to be sorry. I forgive you.” She whispered gently. “And I know it may not seem like it but I love you too. Now, with this,” she gestured to my body, “I realise how much I am going to miss you. I love you.”
I wanted to hear her speak forever. Just listening to her voice could have made me shiver, but hearing it in this melancholy way had the opposite effect. I wanted her to stop talking. She didn’t need to tell me this. I didn’t want her to tell me this. I wanted to plead with her to stop talking, to just sit with me. I wanted to block my ears, but I couldn’t. She kept talking. I wasn’t really listening. I was watching her intently, watching as the tears streamed and I watched as she finally got up and went to the kitchen cupboard.
I would’ve frowned at this and even more shocked at what she did next. She got out cereals and went to get a bowl and spoon. She began to pour excess amounts of Cheerios into the bowl and shovelled it down. I heard people sometimes ate when they were sad, but I had never thought it would be as extreme and almost wrong as this. She watched me as she ate, mouthful after mouthful.
After her first bowl of cereal, which she had been eating out of a bowl she had placed on the bloody table, she picked up the large bowl and went to the fridge. She shook the bowl a little to stop the blood dripping onto the floor. She got out the milk and sat down again. She smiled sweetly, pouring more Cheerios and now milk into her bowl. She stroked my head and her hand travelled down my shoulder to my wrist. The blood was on her fingers now. She stared at her own hand for a minute before picking up the spoon again and began eating, her eyes diverted to me.
“Thanks for the Cheerios.” Right up close, she whispered in my ear as she stood. She meandered around the kitchen, turning my radio on as she went. A song she liked came on and she started to dance slowly to it. How twisted could someone be? I didn’t want to think it, heck, I couldn’t think it but I was. She still kept her eyes on me. After your best friend, who loved you and you loved back, killed themselves, who eats Cheerios, thanks the dead person and dances in their kitchen?