Full Moon

Full Moon

July 31st, 2002

Today I looked at the white hammock by the bay window in my bedroom, for the first time in 6 months. You named it the ‘half-moon’ when we were kids, before you discovered the word Crescent and vowed to name your first-born child the same. Do you remember? The endless hours we spent there when we were little, it was our special private place where we could hide out from the whole world. After all this time, it was still your little escape corner, until recently.

As I closed my eyes, I swear I could see you right there, head tilted back, eyes closed, headphones turned up loud. Where did you go? Where did your mind disappear to when you sat there, zoned out, for hours on end? I made it across the room, I even touched it, but I could not bring myself to sit down, too afraid I would smell you on the cool, soft fabric and undo the last three months of therapy. Too unsure of whether I want to feel close to you or finally let you go.

I decided then that today I would finally write to you. To tell you what you have done to me, to try to cause you a measly one tenth of the pain you have so selfishly inflicted on me. On everyone that loved you. I know that I have not always been the best at communicating my feelings, but today is as good day as any to start, right? The university councillor suggested that I pack all your things away into a box, during stage 2 of my grieving process, anger. I was/am so angry with you.

I found the black moleskin notebook we bought in that quirky bookshop in London last year, because we thought the rainbow pages were in support of the LGBT community, but when the cashier scanned it the till read “children’s unicorn”. Today I dug it out and opened it to write you this letter, tears smudged the first page as my eyes came face to face with your messy, yet aesthetically beautiful handwriting. And again, clear as day, I closed my eyes and heard you say “The Adventures of Fluffypuff, the Gay Children’s Unicorn”.

It was harder than I thought, though! How can I possibly tell a dead girl that she has broken my heart in more ways than she will ever know? How can I yell at a ghost? I want to grab you, shake you violently and tell you I told you so, even though no one likes that person. I want to tell you that your funeral was the most physical pain that I’ve ever experienced even though I did not cry. Not crying hurts more, but I feel like you will not let me go. I want to hit you; I want to slap you back into life.

I saw your mum in the supermarket a couple of days ago. She looked pale and exhausted and she could barely look me in the eye, but the hug she gave me was excruciatingly tight. I wonder if she blames me. I wouldn’t blame her if she did. I would blame me. I do blame me. I could have done more! I should have done more. You were always smarter than me, your grades were always better than mine and you never really studied for them. That is why it is so hard for me to accept that you were this stupid! You were intelligent, but so fucking naïve.

You killed yourself even though you did not commit suicide, but the choices you made that night led you to that fate, and I blame you, too. I told you not to take those pills, I begged you not to get in the car with those fools but you, you were always chasing the moon and the stars. A free spirit, rebellious. Part of me wishes you had listened to me, your best friend, your soulmate. All of me wishes I had gone with you that night, all of me wishes I had taken the pills and gotten into the car with you, because at least then I would not be pen pals with a grave and my moon would always be full.

By Romina Writes

She/Her Made In Portugal Based in Manchester, UK Bilingual BA Creative Writing @ UoB Poet/Fiction Writer/Freelance Editor Sub-editor for The Bolton Review issues 7 & 8. 'Half Moon' selected for The New Writing Showcase 2019. ‘Trouble’ and ‘If I Knew Then What I Know Now’ selected for The New Writing Showcase 2020.


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