The other night I dreamt I went abroad to investigate the death of my best friend.
This topic isn’t new for me. In the two-plus years since her death it’s always been a silent understanding in the back my mind: if I ever went, I’d be compelled to dig even though I know there’ll be no real closure. For a brief stint I thought about writing it out. In a way, I think I thought it’d help me accept certain things by having a sort of “wish fulfillment” on the page. I knew I’d never go back and reread it once it was done and in the end I scrapped the idea after maybe one installment that was never really finished to begin with.
Since then I hadn’t really thought about it aside from brunch with a friend when I admitted I knew myself enough to know I’d look into things if I ever went over there. Considering how dryly I’d said it, my friend didn’t have much to say and we moved on to some other topic.
Everything was normal and then one morning I woke up extremely on edge. Like any dream things took a left turn down the rabbit hole at some point, but what I can remember of the beginning was…tense. Without getting into it I’ll just say I felt off for the next two days. Two days of being torn somewhere between remembering my last conversation with her, with her parents; the last letter I received; her mother’s feelings towards me; all the things we’d discussed; the funds in my bank account; my knowledge of where she was when it happened; the weird sliver of hope buried somewhere deep down…
If I do actually do it then who knows what would happen? Probably nothing, but at that point would I be willing to accept the same bullshit I was originally fed? Probably not. I’d probably push harder which wouldn’t end well no matter you try to dice it.
I’m not big on excessive introspection, but I did have to ask myself the burning question: do I blame myself for her death?- with the subtext here being the way her mother blames me…
It’s been well over two years since her mother last spoke to me. I wasn’t invited to the funeral and I know I’ll never be welcome in her house. Her father and I are on solid terms though and talk a few times a year. In a way, I feel like I’m his last link to her and as much as I enjoy talking to him I’m silently waiting for the day his calls stop.
Now, to be clear it’s not something where I necessarily want them to stop, but I wouldn’t fault him for it if they did.
There are things that can be difficult to bring up to the people we’re closest to and for me this is beyond one of those things. Maybe one day write I’ll another post on this, but for now this is enough.