Dear Samantha

I came to see you today. I guess Regina must have visited recently; there were fresh flowers by your headstone. I know I don’t see you often and I’m sorry for that.

I have something to tell you.

I have met someone. Her name is Persephone. You would like her; she’s got your sense of humour. I think you would have gotten on well.

And I think I love her.

This admission doesn’t mean that I have stopped loving you. It doesn’t mean that I have dismissed or forgotten our time together. It just means that I am ready to continue.

Persephone is leaving today. Going back to Edinburgh. And there’s nothing I can do to change that.

I don’t mean to hurt you by talking about her, but Persephone has shown me something.

She has shown me that it’s time to move on. I have mourned for you for three years. It has consumed me.

Over time, my grief transformed into guilt; guilt for not being a better fiancé, guilt for not being able to save you, guilt for the way we said goodbye. It has destroyed blossoming relationships and it has sabotaged friendships.

Any decision I made caused you to pace around in my head. Any choice was plagued with remorse. I was trapped in a stagnant existence.

But this isn’t your fault. It’s mine.

The argument we had – the day before you died – was pointless. I thought we would make up. That’s why I never chased after you. I thought we would dust it under the rug. Forget about it. Like any other argument we ever had.

I didn’t know it would be one of the last times I would ever see you.

I want to tell you that I was wrong. And I’m sorry. I wasn’t ready for what you wanted. We had only just moved in together. I wasn’t ready to have a conversation about a family. I would have been. Just not then.

I was completely committed to our future together. You just didn’t know it.

I love you,

James

Post fifteen – Hospital

Regina is my world.

She has been supporting me since Samantha died. She has been a rock. Long before I met Persephone, Regina had been there.

Yesterday, I spent the afternoon in hospital waiting to see if I would lose another friend.

I didn’t know what was wrong with her. The doctor kept on pulling Paul into a separate room. Every time he came back, his face was whiter than before. I know the expression. I’ve seen it before.

*

It was three years ago. Paul and I were standing outside the hospital doors. He offered me a cigarette and we stood there silently, blowing puffs of white smoke into the cool night air. We hadn’t heard anything from the doctors. As far as we knew, Samantha was still in theatre.

“Stopping the internal bleeding,” they said. “We’re hopeful.”

We came back in from the cold. The smell of bleach was almost overpowering; a cleaner had just come around to mop the floors. An old man dutifully wiping each square centimetre of the hospital.

We turned the corner. Regina was standing by the entrance to the waiting room. Tears were streaming down her face. Her mascara was swimming.

I saw my face in the reflection of a window before I sank to my knees.

“Suffered too much trauma from the crash,” they said.

*

I took a walk around the hospital yesterday evening; followed old steps through the white corridors. I found Samantha’s room almost instantly.

She led me there: The hint of an accent on the voice of a nurse. A glimpse of a brunette woman going through a doorway as I turned down a corridor.

Her room was empty. I don’t know what I expected to find.

For an age, I stood staring into the darkness; peering into the last home of my fiancé.

What struck me, was that the room looked exactly like I remembered it. Identical machines whirred in the corner. The same curtains hung from the windows. Simple white sheets folded at the top of the bed. The room hadn’t changed. The room hadn’t changed in three years. Neither had I.

Neither had I.

After, I went to Paul. We sat in silence for an hour. And then, I asked if he wanted to go outside for a cigarette.

“Deja vu,” he smiled grimly.

Regina regained consciousness today. They say she will make a full recovery. The baby is fine and Paul is slowly regaining some colour.

I can’t describe the look on his face when he saw Regina sitting up in bed. Relief. Joy. Unbridled pleasure. Love.

I wish I felt that for someone and maybe I’ll never get the chance to. Maybe Samantha will hang over me for the rest of my life.

But I’m not going to remain a constant. A ball of guilt and grief. It’s time.

I know exactly where to start.

Post fourteen – Last night

I met someone last night. She looked exactly like her. The way she moved, the way she dressed. The tiniest detail. All exact.

When I found Persephone rummaging through Samantha’s things yesterday, something broke inside my head. Samantha’s spirit came back to life, pacing angrily inside my head. Started asking me why I would let a stranger defile her precious possessions.

And I threw Persephone out. Went to the bar.

I was drunk. More drunk than I’d been for a long time. The whisky turned my vision. For a moment, it was Samantha. Standing in front of me at the bar. Like she’d never been gone.

Of course, it wasn’t her. But the drink had soiled me. I sidled up next to her and put my hand on the small of her back. I can’t remember what I said.

“I’ve missed you.”

Possibly.

She turned as I spoke. Pulled my hand away. Slapped me across the face. The red mark stung.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she screeched.

Samantha would never have raised her voice. I was confused. Stumbled backwards. Smacked my head on the back of the bar. Thrown out by the blonde barmaid.

I remember my flat. My nose was bleeding. Blood dripped onto the floor.

I remember the drink. I remember throwing her things around the room. Smashing the camera against the wall. Tearing up birthday cards.

I remember the knocking. The banging from neighbours through the wall. It must have been late. And I was screaming. Cursing.

I fell to the floor sobbing. It was a realisation. I can never escape.

Post thirteen – Manchester

Yesterday, I admitted the extent of my reclusion to Persephone: the rigorous cleaning sessions. The nightly seances for Samantha. The train station bar.

Reactions to this confession rarely vary. Many look away. Most can only summon a half-hearted apology.

Persephone, however, pulled a crumpled receipt from her bag and began scribbling away.

“Then I guess we have a lot to do tomorrow,” she smiled.

She was right.

Persephone terrifies me. I am scared by her unpredictability. How she throws herself into each moment without pause or indecision. But it is contagious. Exciting. When I am with Persephone, I do not know what to expect.

She is showing me that there is more to life than the four whitewashed walls of my flat. More than the dark corners of the train station bar. In the past few days, she has shown me an escape from the blinkered existence I currently occupy.

When Samantha died, I felt like the world retreated; didn’t know how to treat me. My friends stopped calling. My work colleagues stopped talking. In reality, it was the other way around. I closed myself into an shallow existence. First, to morn for Samantha. And then to conserve her memory.

It’s time to let Samantha rest. As long as she is around – as long as I am haunted by her memory – perhaps I can never escape from this prison I have created. I think she is holding me back.

Earlier, Persephone asked me to dinner. I refused. Made out that I had plans tonight. My only plan was to go to the station.

Tonight, I will put the box into the loft, and then, I will ask Persephone over for dinner.

Post twelve – the box

I’ve been staring at this box for over an hour now.

I don’t know what to do with it. For nearly three years I have rummaged through its contents; items that used to belong to Samantha.

Most evenings, I come back from the train station – half blind with alcohol – and examine each object, trying to pick off any new memories which have been inspired by four pints of cheap lager.

On bad nights, I can almost imagine her standing by the window. She never says anything. She just looks out onto the city; the passing cars lighting her face. But that doesn’t happen very often.

I think I may have met someone.

I feel guilty. I feel I am betraying Samantha when I talk to this girl. Every single syllable.

The girl, Persephone, reached for my hand today as we were walking through the Christmas Markets. I violently tugged it back. Her expression reminded me of Samantha on the day she left. I nearly retched.

I look through the box because it is what I think I should be doing. If I don’t, Samantha’s ghost awakens and starts pacing around inside my skull.

I don’t know what to do with the damn thing.

Post eleven – photographs of Manchester

I’ve been avoiding looking at these photographs for three years.

They were taken the day before Samantha died. It was July 2006. We spent the day wandering around Manchester. Sam was getting cabin fever in the new flat and I was beginning to smell like a mouldy box. We decided to take the day off and see what we could find.

Samantha grabbed the camera before we left.

The outside of our flat

Castlefield

The Palace Hotel

Lincon Square

St. Peter’s Square

She took this video as we were on the way home. On the way back, she joked about wanting to buy one of those pushchairs.

Half an hour after this was taken, we had a blazing argument. She slammed the door in tears. I saw her once more after that.

I told Persephone about it today. I’m not sure why, I hardly know her. I’ve never really told anyone, not even Regina.

It felt good to finally explain the whole story.

Post ten – moving to the city

Samantha and I decided to buy a flat in the city centre in 2006. I was still living with some friends in Fallowfield. I don’t know why we hadn’t considered moving in together earlier. Money was no longer an issue and we were both earning a reasonable wage.

We spent three weeks deciding where we wanted to live. Eventually, we opted to move into town, excited at the prospect of spending each day in the centre; we made plans to regularly visit museums, travel to new bars and spend time getting to know the city we had both lived in for years.

Unpacking was a nightmare. We hadn’t considered the downsides of hauling the contents of two lives up three flights of stairs. It took us all day and we spent the majority of the afternoon moving heavy boxes from one room to another.

That evening, we drank wine from two mugs while watching a television which sat on a packing box.

The city lights flooded into the bedroom that night – we still had to buy blinds for all the windows. Samantha barely slept and the next morning, I got up early to buy her an eye mask from town. One of the benefits of living next to Market Street; anything you needed was within walking distance.

Three weeks later, the hall was still full of unpacked boxes and Samantha was dead.

Post nine – Camera

I’ve not really felt myself today. Yesterday threw me a little; the talk at the church, the chat with the strange girl, the evening alone with Samantha’s restless memory pacing around in my head.

I don’t really know what came over me at the group – I was watching Paul and Regina argue on Twitter. It wasn’t a real fight; one of those jokey fights couples sometimes have. It made me think of Samantha.
-
I stood up slowly when Pat asked if I wanted to say anything. I’ve never spoken to any of those people before. My heart was pounding. It was a stupid idea.

And all I could think to tell them was that Reggie, my closest friend, was expecting a baby.

I left after I ran out of words. Half-jogged away from the church. Embarrassed, I flung myself into the nearest bar I could find.

I don’t know how she found me. I think I apologised to the girl – Persephone – for my outburst. She smiled and told me not to worry about it.

We spoke for five minutes. She asked what I did for a living and I tried not to bore her. It’s been so long since I’ve had a conversation with a stranger, I’m not sure what’s boring and what isn’t.

We traded numbers. She said that, if I needed to talk to anyone, I could ring her. And then she was gone.

I spent the rest of the evening at home, drinking in the flat and going through the box of Samantha’s stuff. I found the camera buried at the bottom of a pile of old restaurant receipts.

We went to Prague six years ago. A weekend break. We’d been going out for about a year, although we hardly saw each other. I had just graduated and was desperate to get a job so I could stay in Manchester – I hardly had any money and could never really afford to take Samantha out.

Samantha had just got a promotion and she was working all the hours God sent. We barely saw each other.

The weekend break was my idea. The hotel cost the last of my student loan.

We were sitting in the airport waiting for the flight when she realised we’d forgotten the camera. I remember running to the shop by the terminal, grabbing a handful of disposable cameras and piling them on the counter.

We could only afford one – all our money was in a korunas.

“23 pictures,” she sighed, looking at the back of the packet.

Samantha never let that camera out of her sight while we were away. She would always choose her photos carefully, sometimes changing her mind about a shot just as she was about to press the button.

When we got home I asked her if she wanted me to get it developed.

“Not yet,” she said.

After a few weeks of asking, Samantha told me to put the camera away for safekeeping. She said she would like to get it developed after she had forgotten all about the holiday. One day, she would find the camera and not be able to remember why it was there.

“Then,” she said, “it would be a nice surprise when the photos are developed.”

-

I put the camera back in the box and went to bed.

Why do I feel so guilty?

Post eight – “Things are going to change.”

Since Samantha’s death, Regina has tried to sandwich as much of her life into my own. Even as my other friends dropped away, she kept visiting. Even when we had nothing to say to each other.

 

She has always been there for me. Today, we were walking around Piccadilly Basin by my flat. She told me that she couldn’t commit such a large part of her life to me any longer.

 

In nine months, she is going to have someone else who will be dependent on her. I think this is what I wanted. I feel guilty about stealing so much of her valuable time.

 

I knew she wasn’t always going to be around forever, but I just thought I would have longer before she said goodbye. Of course, she’s not really disappearing from my life. She promised me that. I guess Regina is just moving on with her life. She said I should do the same.

 

What if I can’t?

 

Post seven – weekend

Every Sunday, Regina and Paul catch the tram from Salford Quays to my flat. I never have much to say to them. Regina and I usually go downstairs into the kitchen and drink tea. Paul normally watches television in the living room.

Regina and I never really have a lot to talk about. She normally asks me about my plans for the week and reminds me to go to the bereavement group on Wednesday.

Today, I told Regina about yesterday’s house-warming party. She seemed pleased that I had volunteered to go. I didn’t tell her I hated every second of it.

*

I met my new next door neighbour earlier in the day. I had to leave the flat and she caught me on the way back in. I guessed her invitation was just a polite one.

She was standing on the balcony as I left to go to the station. She asked me in and I couldn’t really think of a reason to say no. We chatted for a few minutes about the building, the other residents and the area.

She had to go and answer the intercom and I spent the rest of the evening sitting in a corner and feeling guilty for enjoying a conversation with another woman.

When I got home, I bought the box of Samantha’s stuff down from the shelf in the bedroom.

*

I think Paul and Regina visit because they are worried: That I drink too much. That I never leave the flat. That I have no one talk to. I wish they didn’t feel the need to come. I feel like I am imposing; taking away their free time.

Still, every week Regina gives me a hug as she is leaving and promises to see me next week.