Flowers

The flowers are pretty. Prettier than he ever was. I guess you could compare him to a thistle, if you insist on talking about plants. That's what most people are doing. Talking about plants and grass and dresses and the weather and whatever else people talk about to take their minds off what's happening. I'm not a socialite, or even a decent liar. Not like he was.

Bastard.

About a week ago, I noticed it first. Of course, it'd been going on for months beforehand so the doctors said. They found him in a car, up in the mountains somewhere. 'Stairway' was drifting through the speakers, and a white lily sat beside him, on the passenger seat. How fricking cliché is that? Never had an original thought in his life. I did most of the thinking for both of us, and only God knows what I was thinking when I led him up the stairs three months ago. Couldn't handle the pressure, so the note said. They found it in his pocket.

So it might have come as a bit of a shock. There were probably better ways I could have told him, rather than over the phone. He was stressed, well how did he think I felt?! Did he think I wanted this to happen? I know some girls still use it to try and trap guys into marriage, but I'm not like that. I wouldn't have married him if he were the last person on earth! Still, maybe that's what he thought I wanted. I hated the way he did that, just read things into every word I said. He could have construed the word 'hi' as a death threat. Maybe he did.

His mother asked me if I was upset when she came over to tell me. The woman never liked me. The feeling was mutual. Upset? At first, yeah. A little. But now? I'm angry. Angry as all hell. How dare he do this to me! Leave me with a swollen stomach and his demon parents! If he wasn't lying in that box already, I'd put him there myself. Bastard.

Depression affects one in every five Australians, so the Rotary ad goes. He was one of them. Couldn't hack the pressure of being a father in six months time, so he got himself drunk on self-pity and decided to end the madness – literally – and take a walk on the bright side with his gods or whatever he believed in. I hope he can see me. I hope he feels miserable and tormented and all the rest when he sees what he's left me with.

I don't want anything more to do with him once today's over. When they cover the smell of Lynx and carbon-monoxide with six feet of dirt, I'll be out of here. The kid's going to an orphanage, especially if it looks like him. I couldn't stand to look at his face every day and remember how he used to smile that idiot grin of his. The one that I used to giggle and spout trite romance at. The one that I can see now in my head.

The trite romance died – it's rotting in my stomach.

It wasn't my fault. I keep telling myself it wasn't my fault. Even the doctors said it wasn't my fault he couldn't deal with life. He gassed himself to get away from pathetic feelings like guilt.

Bastard.


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