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STEFAN

After Ashley left, I came out and found the note he had left. It said in
scrawled letters: "Went out to find (ex?) girlfriend. Be back in a few. Ashley."
I was very worried. He had been gone for hours, and I wasn't sure what had
become of him or Jemma. Not until I flicked on the TV and saw that Jemma had
just committed suicide. And not until I saw Ashley being consulted for her death.
His eyes were sparkling with tear drops that were starting to form.

I screamed. No - it wasn't a scream. More like a terrifying screech, like that
of a dying animal.
I felt so guilty. I turned the TV off, not being able to bear Ashley's pain any
longer. I sat down, trying to decide what to do next? Would they question me as
well? This whole thing is my fault. It's my fault Jemma's dead, and now it's my
fault for Ashley's dramatic aftermath. I was extremely frustrated. Why can't I
die? Why couldn't I have been born? Why can't I be normal? Why do I ruin
everything? I wept soundly.

I dragged myself back up the stairs and climbed into bed, silently crying myself
to sleep.


ASHLEY

I don't remember a time where I cried so painfully. After being questioned by
the police, they decided to release me, though they could call me back at any
time. I didn't care anymore. Let them. When I walked in the house, everything
seemed untouched. Everything except my note, which now lay on the coffee table.
I picked it up gently. But I remembered my sorrow, and crushed in my fist and
threw it toward the rubbish bin. Miss.

What was I to tell Stefan? That it was his fault? No. Absolutely not. None of
this was his fault. It was my fault for not coming quickly enough. I could have
prevented Jemma's death with a little more effort. But instead, I took her life,
and probably ruined Stefan's. I felt incredulously guilty.

I was angry, sad, depressed, mental, and afraid all at the same time. The next
days zoomed by like bullets. They were blurry and unclear, like I was high on
some sort of drug that isolated my thoughts. The next weeks were cloudy and
monotonous. My life had become a broken record, playing the same routine
repeatedly.

Months passed. Nothing changed. Finally, a small, narrow strip of clarity
revealed its deep crevice of a bizarre connection to reality. And finally, my
body reattached with my soul. I was still upset and depressed.

That day, I began to peel carrots. I threw together a poorly made salad. I
separated lettuce and I cut tomatoes.