This is where my life ended. My world ended. Right here at the end of this dock. Sure, I might walk, talk and breath but anyone who looks me in the eyes will see the deadness there. The spark of life smothered and put out by grief.
I expected that when I finally managed to drag myself here that I would feel something. The sharp pain of loss. The agonising sense of loneliness but even here, where it happened… I somehow feel nothing at all. My insides are as empty and vast as the ocean before me.
I watch the birds as they swoop down and pick up their fishy feasts. I can’t help but compare them with my supposed loved ones, swooping in, in my hour of need and picking on the bones of the death that fills me.
My psychiatrist will tell me, they’re just trying to be helpful, supportive, they want you to be happy. Only I see them how they really are; emotional carrion eaters. It just makes me sick sometimes.
It’s good to finally be here, to finally face the object of my death, it’s peaceful here in a way. The sound of the waves breaking on the shore around me is soothing, a constant hush of a mother, soothing a troubled child.
Is that how Isabell felt? Did she feel me here with her, soothing her sweaty brow, shushing her wimpers of pain?
Or did she feel crushed? Obliterated by the unfathomable weight of the ocean? Did she feel the icy cold hand of death around her neck? Did she claw at that hand? Did she cling to life?
I guess I will find out soon enough.
There’s something poetic about it, 8 years from the date it happened, matching the 8 years of age Isabell had here on earth, losing my second child, 8 months in the womb. The universe is screaming at me to put this right, restore the cosmic balance.
Once I fling myself into these icy depths, weighed down by xanax and vodka, I’ll float and drift gently, lovingly into the arms of beautiful Isabell, sweet baby Amelia, we’ll be happy once more.
My death will bring me back to life.
I left a note for John back up at the summer house, not that you could call it a house anymore. Since our baby left, it’s only occupants have been the ghosts of our happy past. I’ve tried to explain to him before, my reasoning, my logic but he is willfully ignorant. He even tried to section me! Can you believe that? So I had to bide my time, pretend I was coming alive, make plans for a future that doesn’t exist, that never could have existed no matter how much he wanted it. I’ve played pretend, all while counting down the seconds to my final death. Knowing deep in my heart that this was always fated to be.
I feel the numbness creeping silently into my limbs and for the first time in nearly a decade my heart flutters in excitement, the time has nearly come. My antidote to a world of death is working. I chuck the bottle of vodka behind me and hear it shatter on the wooden stairs that lead up to the bluff, I don’t need it anymore. On stiff, wooden legs, I stumble to the end of the pier. Lay down on it’s edge. Empty my body of oxygen. And roll towards my death, my birth, my ending, my new beginning. A single tear of joy leaks from beneath my closed eyes and joins the saltiness of the great ocean, arms wide, embracing, I splash into the sea.
I’m coming babies. Mummy’s here.