The Day My Friend Died

The day my friend died.

The memory is clear yet also hazy. 

I remember sitting near the old railway bridge, breathing the toxic combination of mould and whatever substance he was smoking.

Matthew wasn’t much older than me, but he had a world of experiences I could never have imagined.

We both admitted these experiences wouldn’t scratch the surface of those we would have had in the city on the mainland, but they were still thrilling. Ventor was beautiful, with rolling, steep streets leading to the beaches and a virile fishing spot. We were admired for the fresh fish and seafood, and understandably. There’s nothing better than fish that has just been caught; there’s a flavour that frozen food can’t match.

Couple with homegrown vegetables…it makes my mouth water just thinking about it. But as a youth, you don’t appreciate how lucky you are. The grass is always greener, or should I say the sea is always bluer.

He had been a clean-cut and polite boy in public. His brown hair was impeccably neat, and his clothes were never creased. People often commented that he must have a forcefield about him; he seemed to repel any mess that the rest of us got into. 

I compared him to Pig Pen from Peanuts, only in reverse.

His parents had been so proud of him and his achievements. His grades were high, and he had a bright future. They hoped he would follow their footsteps in either medicine or teaching, but neither of them would have forced him.

Yet outside of that, when the eyes of the adults had turned back to their humdrum existence, Matthew’s personality changed.

His blue became brighter and full of mischief. A mischief that became more extreme as he got older.

By the time we were sixteen and seventeen, respectively, he had committed a myriad of petty crimes and discovered the dark world of drugs, starting with the sweet, tangy weed before being coerced into the blacker depths.

In hindsight, I should have asked what was causing this rebellion. Behind Matthew's laid-back exterior, I sometimes sensed he was hiding something. I had assumed it was a two-finger salute to the demands of perfection and his determination to achieve it.

That may have been part of it. Or perhaps I just didn’t want to dig any further in case the walls caved in on me.

We all had secrets, and although he knew mine, albeit not to the full extent, I didn't press for his. I assumed he'd tell me if he wanted.

That day, I hadn't a clue what it was that we were smoking, only that every inhalation burned my lungs like a thousand bee stings and set my throat on fire.

I knew there were tears in my eyes; that watery curtain had distorted my sight, but I persisted. Hell, I wasn’t about to allow him to think I was a coward. He’d already sworn at me for refusing to take the charity box from the local shop.

There was a fine rain falling, cold and unpleasant as it soaked through my thin hoodie, and I shifted into the gloom of the bridge.

It smelled awful, and I feared the fungal spores would invade my body and attack my insides as much as the cigarette.

Matthew’s nose curled in disdain, but he followed a moment later, unperturbed by the rancid perfume about us.

“Good stuff. Cost me enough,” he said between drags. “It means I can’t afford the vodka, but if that stupid raghead is in charge of the off-licence today, I can lift it.”

I looked down. I hated it when he used language like that, but it was another thing I wouldn’t question. For all he was, he was loyal, and he’d helped me through a lot. I wouldn’t have passed some tests if he hadn’t helped. 

And, if I think back, he never used slurs unless he was high. 

His voice echoed from the walls. At least, I think it was that. Everything began to sound distant, and I felt like I had retreated into my body.

Then Matthew convulsed, beginning to shake as if he were possessed. His throat bulged as he tried to speak, but only garbled sounds passed his lips before a wave of vomit spilt out, splashing down his shirt and over his crisp denim jeans.

The smell of curdled milk and cereal made bile rise into my throat. Luckily, I’d skipped breakfast that morning since I’d got up late.

I stared around frantically, able to make out the shape of a figure walking their dog in the distance. 

At least, I hoped I did.

The drugs had created a whirlwind in my head, and searing pain tore at my temples. Mist impeded my sight, and nothing seemed to hold any clarity. Except for the dire situation I found myself in.

I think I called out. My vocal cords strained as if they were being crushed.

I think the person paused and looked over. Maybe their dog pricked their ears and strained at the leash, wanting to help more than their guardian.

Despair welled up in me. My heart raced so fast I thought it would shatter my rib cage. I would still hear Matthew choking on his vomit, his breaths rattling when they were able to be sucked in.

I felt helpless, like a mouse caught in a glue trap, unable to even try to gnaw my own limbs off.

‘My phone…’

I forced my arm to reach into my pocket, praying to whatever deity that might be listening that I’d remembered it. Heck, even the Devil would do, as long as I could get help.

The bile resurged and attacked my throat. I heaved, and the acidic fluid burned at my lips. But my phone was there; I couldn’t focus on anything else. 

Low Battery. 5% remaining.

For the first time in my life, I believed games could be detrimental to one's health. A suggestion I’d always scoffed at. After all, how could playing Candy Crush harm anyone?

“Dial 999…”

A voice whispered from behind me. I started, from muscles finally obeying me. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I could just make out the form of a woman. She was kneeling nearby, her blonde hair framing what I felt was a kindly face like a gossamer web. I could feel her staring intently at me and urging me on.

“Dial 999,” she repeated, her tone soft but commanding, a mix of a songstress and a sergeant major. “Do not give in to weakness. Fight it. If not for you, for those who care about you. Your time is not through. Be brave…”

My finger joints screamed in pain, or maybe it was me, as I managed to get the screen up and key in those three digits. It rang twice, and a voice answered.

I was incoherent at this stage, my body slumping onto the cold stone, bile and rain saturating my clothes. I heard my voice slurred and unintelligible. I can only guess they traced my call from the phone.

“Can’t help…he’s dead…I know he’s dead…dying too…lady…want my mom…” 

A low, long beep indicated the battery had died far more quickly than I hoped. I sighed, but as my eyes closed, craving the sweet release of unconsciousness, I felt the woman’s cool finger resting on my cheek. I heard her voice telling me that it wasn’t meant yet.

“Who…?” I mumbled, my tongue swelling in my mouth, cutting off more precious air. 

“They call me Grace…”

A tiny part of me thought she may have been an angel, but, raised to believe what I wanted and the stubborn teen I was, I logically pushed that thought aside.

But I know it was that experience that stopped me from being a complete Atheist. There’s always been a tiny fragment in my heart that hopes life isn’t black and white.

Blackness claimed me, pulling me down in its firm embrace and folding me in the release of nothingness. 

I felt as if I were floating, drifting on a waveless sea, far and away from the pain and fear that life had thrown at me.

Bliss.