CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Word Count: 543
When in your life did you feel the most alone?
I’m going to burn this. This is the eighth question I am going to burn. A man must keep his secrets because he must appear strong, even if he is not that, so much, on the inside.
I used to think that was when I woke up drenched in sweat, with my heart pumping, as early dawn sunlight filtered in through my bedroom window and caught the model plane hung above my bed. I used to think, that, after my parents died and my aunt moved into our house, every morning it happened was the loneliest moment of my life. It would happen, I would wake up, and there would be nobody already there, nobody beside me, nobody to go to. Then it would repeat the next morning, and, eventually, I got used to it. Nothing like reliving the worst moments of your life in your nightmares, it makes you stronger, harder, more ready to face the world and what it is going to throw at you.
Those moments were horrible dreams, the kind so horrible that you think, when you wake up, nothing of what you saw could have possibly been real. Well, for me, it was, I was watching and re-watching moments permanently imprinted into my memory. The blood, the splatter, the evidence, the phone, everything I saw, I felt, I breathed as if it were happening all over again without me knowing that I wasn’t greeting it for the first time.
Life moved on, childhood dripped away from me like silk through a seamstress’s fingers.
I used to think, that when Michelle died and the nightmares started up again, when I started watching the discovery of her body in brilliantly real colour, that it was the loneliest moment of my life. It had been a long time since I had moved out of that bedroom with the model plane. I slept in the bedroom my parents used to sleep in and I still do. I have spent my whole life in this house, I move up the ranks that were preset into its being and now I am in top.
I remember the morgue, her cold body and the way her skin felt on my fingers. Like she had never been touched, like she had never felt happiness, like she had always been alone. We couldn’t have an open casket, there was far too much, even if he’d left her face alone for the most part.
Even when, on occasion, the dreams melded together and I woke up undecided as to what had just happened, it was not the loneliest part of my life. When that happened, I used to think it was, because there was nobody to turn to. Just like when the nightmares focused in just Michelle and I woke up from them to an early day and a ringing alarm clock, I was all alone.
I still am.
This is the loneliest moment of my life, every current moment is the loneliest part of my life and every one that has passed by me doesn’t seem to be able to compare with it. Every step I take is the moment of my life where I am most alone, but the step after it can’t even come close.