Amandas Story

I shouldn’t be thinking about this, nor should it be written, but lord, for once I want to be  on top, so it must be recorded, not only for her, but also for me.

We never officially, gave ourselves to each other, for she never really believed in any of that. Thinking about it now makes me laugh, yet on the inside I’m crying, maybe I always will be, or maybe it will get easier. Who knows? I sure don’t
In ‘the crow,’ they believe that when an unrest soul dies the crow guides them back to life to put things right, if that was true id surely want them to kill me, so I could come back and get my revenge, you know I deserve it, and if you don’t...you will.

This story, doesn’t really begin, it sort of flows from another story, like all true stories do. We’d just met and truly from the first moment I saw her, I knew she was the most beautiful girl id ever see, her eyes were the clearest blue. She had to ask my name three times before I realised she was speaking, maybe id been mesmerised, or maybe zoned out? Stupid trivial things, they rub so deep, they’re the parts you miss the most. So I finally answered my name, Jessica. She had smiled and nodded and the next two words she said will replay in my mind til the day I die. “I’m Amanda.”

Amanda, it summed her up perfectly. From her happy free flowing highs when wed fall in fits of laughter to my bedroom floor, to the booze covered lows where we’d cling to our bottles to pour inside the tears we allowed to build inside of us.

She had turned up on my doorstep one night crying and covered in blood throwing her story of rape and knives at me, id barely let her in before shed opened a bottle of vodka. I should’ve stopped her but I couldn’t, the hurt in her croaky, cracked voice told me to let her empty her woes into a bottle that night. I made her slowly explain to me what had gone down that night. And she did, her drunken slow getting more and more slurry with ever swig of vodka, I noticed a cigarette never left her hand through the whole shakey ordeal. By the end of her tale I too had opened a bottle of vodka.

He had been her perfect boyfriend, Andrew; Tall, dark, handsome even dangerous, son of an international drug lord. Figures Amanda would attract the type to rape and leave slaughtered, though I couldn’t and to this day cant figure out why he’d do such a thing. Not that he escaped without harm, my free flowing girl stabbed him, and I couldn’t be more proud of her for that, though it makes me sad…she hadn’t wanted to stab the man she loved.

I hate to say it, but that son of a bitch got his revenge through me. I knocked on the door to his apartment one evening full of questions about his new attitude and about why he did it. After hours of pointless harm and grief, I limped my path away from that apartment ashamed and broken. I’d figured out the answer to my questions and as I slumped against a park bench I allowed it to resonate through me. He’d become a drug fucked money obsessed bastard and I’d just experienced it at its worst.

I did my best to hide it, bottle it up and bury it. Yet Amanda seemed to be able to get it out of me, always had been able to tell when there was something she needed to know. “Hit the roof.” Would’ve have been understatement of the century, and though I begged her to stay and hold me, she left with her anger and a purpose, to kill Andrew for what he’d done to me. I cried for days on end afterwards. As I learnt later on she didn’t kill him, but she did much worse, by destroying his money, his drugs and other possessions. Millions of dollars she trashed in her impulse, she payed for her actions with her own life, just after being deported back to Germany.

Her sister hayleigh, rung me from the airport, from the second I picked up the phone I knew what she was going to say, she sounded drained depressed and so alone. “She’s dead.” The reality of those words hits so much harder then you can imagine its like you’ve been winded. When you say goodbye to someone, you never really expect it to be the last time you ever say goodbye.

Amanda’s been dead at least a month, maybe two, I didn’t record the date, didn’t want to know. When I think of her I want to remember the smell of her perfume, and all those hot nights, I want to see her smiling face and the laughable corsets. But I don’t, when I think of her I can barely see her face, I see a stuffed body in a coffin, I see Andrew with a target over his head and I feel loneliness matched with this confusion over her death. Every now and then I forget what has happened and I wonder why Amanda hasn’t come around in a while. That’s when I start to remember the trivial things, and I as I said, it’s the trivial things that hurt most.