The Day My Friend Died

I awoke to the glare of artificial light and the rhythmic beep of a heart monitor. A tube connected the back of my hand to a drip, the bag half empty of fluid.A stiff hospital gown had replaced my clothes; worse, my underwear was gone. No doubt, because I was unable to move to the restroom. But despite everything, that was the first thing that bothered me.Then I felt the warm hand clasping my own and the tears dripping onto my skin.My mother was sobbing silently, her eyes full of relief. After holding back her sorrow, her delight at seeing me wake up had overwhelmed her, and her heart released her emotions. My father was sitting by her side. He was the more stoic type. But I could tell from the redness, half hidden by his glasses, that he hadn’t been without tears himself. Guilt flooded over me, and if I hadn’t been so tired, I would have been crying, too.“You bloody idiot.” My father spoke first, the reprimand dulled by the happiness he clearly felt. He was holding back a smile.

I couldn’t avoid the old bridge on my way back. Typically, workmen were making so-called improvements on the street, diverting traffic and pedestrians. I often wondered how much work got done. The times I saw them, all they were doing was chatting like washerwomen or going over the plans. I seldom saw actual work. The work, or lack thereof, was the furthest thing from my mind as the bridge loomed dark and severe before me.The tunnel looked endless as the gloom consumed the light, and the sound turned to pitiful echoes.The memory of Matthew and that fateful day surged forward and made my head throb with its aggression. I could almost feel the bile return, and my muscles twitch and contort again. ‘Be brave.’The voice returned to me, singing like the seraphim in my ears. It was so clear I turned to look to see where it had come from.But there was no one, only the leaves dancing in the breeze from the wilting trees.Nothing but weeds ever grew here, no matter how hard people tried.

“You can pay the rest on delivery.”The elderly owner counted the notes before slipping them into the till, his fat fingers stiff with arthritis yet still oddly nimble. He’d not let muscle aches and cramps interrupt his work and likely never would.“I have a card machine, although it does incur a small charge. Damn banks.”“It’ll probably be cash,” I said, stepping aside to allow him to pass. “Dad hates paying more for using or getting out his own money.”“Bloody right,” the man grumbled, beckoning Sarah from the backroom. “Bloody banks. They earn a shedload and expect more.”He chuntered on as Sarah led me away so she could write down the product numbers.“He can talk for England,” she said with a wide smile. “But he’s a great boss, even if he can be a jerk sometimes.”“Can’t they all?”The comment earned me a smile. I liked her, I’m not going to lie. She was one of the first girls I’d felt comfortable around, nothing romantic but pleasant. I felt she would listen without too much ju