A Final Goodbye

By Emmie

How does it feel to find out that the one and only man you’ve ever truly loved has gone? How does it feel to know that you’ll never lay eyes on him again? How does it feel to know that you’ll never again hear the sound of his voice that you love so much? How does it feel to know that there were so many things that needed to be said and explained, but that will never be out in the open? How does it feel to know that you never got that chance to say a last proper goodbye to someone who meant so much to you?

Well, I can tell you, there are no words to describe the feeling. Really. No sentence or phrase or expression or anything could explain how I’m feeling right now.

I’m sitting by his grave now, staring through my tears at his name on that gravestone, only just visible in the half-light of dusk. I’ve never known a day so grim; the sky is deep grey and the clouds are heavy, as if they’re about to fall down from the sky above me and suffocate me. A terrible feeling of loss and grief wells up inside me as I think about how I’ll never be able to tell him how I really feel about him. The last time I spoke to him was over a year ago, and we were arguing. I’ll never get the chance to say sorry now. He died thinking I hated him. And it will never be put right.

I didn’t even go to his funeral. After I received that dreaded phone call which delivered the life-shattering news I spent the following few days in denial. I refused to believe that my Patrick was gone. Dead. That I’d never see him again. I just wouldn’t believe it. By the time I had accepted reality and managed to get a plane back from Germany where I was living to England I had missed the funeral. That’s why I’m here now this evening, to say my last goodbye.

Suddenly, I let out a loud, anguished, almost angry cry. Why him? Why my Patrick? Anyone else but him! We had so much to sort out . . . so many things to say to each other. I really needed to talk to him, more than anything. But now I can’t. And I never will. I’m so angry with myself for waiting until it was too late to admit my feelings and come back.

I lay a bouquet of flowers that I bought for him down by his grave. As if a bunch of flowers can heal the wounds that time has made, as if they can patch up everything that we did wrong along the way. They are the most expensive and beautiful ones I could find. As if spending lots of money on him will make up for what I put us through, for me running away without telling him. I watch as my tears that are falling endlessly down drop onto the soft petals of the flowers on the ground in front of me.

Why didn’t I just call him? All I had to do was call him and then I probably wouldn’t be sitting here in this cold damp graveyard crying my eyes out, wishing I could change the past, trying to turn back time. One simple phone call just to let him know that I was okay and that I was sorry and it might all have been different.

I reach into my pocket and pull out an old photograph, which is crumpled and creased because of all the times I have carried it around with me, held it and cried over it. A photo of me and him together, many, many years ago. Lots of people would say that he never smiled, they may never have seen him smile. But I have, and this photo is proof of it. His eyes are sparkling and happy and his grin makes my heart skip a beat, even now. Back in med school when this photo was taken people said we were meant to be. Holly and Patrick, you couldn’t have a couple more in love. We were together longer than most of our friends put together. Who knows, we may even have stayed together forever if it hadn’t have been for a ‘friend’ of ours who managed to make me believe that Patrick had betrayed me, although he hadn’t.

If only they could see us now; Patrick dead and me alone with a worn out photograph and my regrets.

I should never have said those things I did the night before I went off to Germany. He was only trying to help, I know he was, and I knew at the time as well. I just felt like I was under so much pressure after I was stalked, like I was walking on thin ice all the time, trying to get on with my life, when I was terrified and traumatised on the inside. I should have opened up and let him in, that’s what I needed more than anything. But instead I closed up and drew away from him, telling him to stop fussing about me and smothering me - which of course led to an argument. He couldn’t bear to see me so wound up and tense, he was trying to help. But instead I shouted at him and told him to leave me to it. I stormed out and left. That’s the last time I saw him, heard from him or contacted him myself.

The pain inside me is terrible, knowing that there was so much I could have done to avoid this situation. But I didn’t do anything; instead I sat back and waited for the situation to make itself right. But it didn’t, did it. That’s why I’m here now.

I glance at my watch; I’ve been sitting here for hours now. The chill of the air has seeped through my thick jacket and surrounds me like a blanket. The icy hands of the wind ruffle my hair, which hangs loose down over my shoulders. My eyes are stinging, partly from the cold, but mainly due to the tears that never cease to fall. My tears are mixing with the rain that has begun to fall, until they almost become one, my pain pouring out in the tears and the depressing rain reflecting my sombre mood. I look up to the sky and close my eyes. As the rain drops on my eyelids I softly whisper . . . a final goodbye.