There had not been one day in the last three months that wasn’t sunny. I hadn’t realized before I moved to California how fucking annoying that would be. Everything is so shimmery and bright, it seems to highlight all my darkness, but not actually illuminate any of it. Not today. Today it is raining when I wake up. It’s actually the sound of the rainfall that wakes me. It is a little too early to be awake. Dawn. The twilight before sunrise. This time of day is like an old friend I wish I talked to more. I have this urge to be out in the rain, I grab a coat and head outside. I catch raindrops with my hands and watch them roll down my wrists. It is one of those moments I have grown to be fond of as a pseudo-adult, a moment that isn’t much, but it brings a kind of joy that I don’t have much of anymore. The kind of joy that pierces through the numbing and uninspiring cyclical nature of new found responsibilities. It’s a moment that makes me more emotional than I feel is proportionate to the situation. So I repress it and I light a Turkish Gold, take a long drag and watch the smoke weave between the raindrops. For a second I feel like I’m at home. It is truly intoxicating, and then equally depressing. I am not home, and nearly everything about this place is a constant reminder of that. I think about a lot of shit on my walk back to my apartment. I am overcome with a feeling I can’t put my finger on, but what I do know is that my rain soaked clothes smell like wet cigarettes. I head straight for my bathroom and into my shower. Daylight is starting to rear its ugly head, and I would like to hide from it for as long as I can. A shower head, a storm cloud. It feels like something heavy is sitting on my heart, but I can’t cry. I just let the water run down my face to get a taste of release. The water has been running ice cold for about five minutes, and I decide it’s time to get on with it. I sit in my living room with my hair wrapped up towel drying. I try to do a five minute meditation, but all I end up actually doing is thinking about how bored I am. I read a few chapters of a book. My cat wakes up, and cries for breakfast. I feed her and read a few more. She finishes her food ,and lays behind me for her morning nap. I get up, and grab my phone. It is time to replug into the grid after a couple days. I see I missed a call from you, and you left a message. No one leaves messages anymore, but you do:
“Hey you! I just wanted to call and see how you’re holding up down there. I know you have been having a bit of a hard time, but I know you. You are gonna figure it out. The world is a shitty, fucked up mess of a place and it is hard to figure out how and where you fit into it. Or how you’re going to get through it.
I just hope you know that I love you. Remember that.
Ha! Ok, you don’t need anymore of my old man rambling to your voicemail.
Sending my love to you kid.”
I feel a twinge of guilt at the sound of your voice. I have only called once since the move, and it was mostly to talk about myself. I smile despite the guilt, thinking about you pouring your morning coffee having me cross your mind and not being able to resist the urge to call. I have never had a dad, but I have you. I call you back, but you don’t answer. I imagine your phone buzzing on the kitchen counter as you pull out of your driveway. You will remember as you round the corner onto the main road as you always do. I have envied the way you move through the world without the codependency to technology. I have a panic attack the moment I think I might have lost my phone. I tinker about in my apartment, watering a plant, hanging a coat, vacuuming a rug. I have absolutely nothing to do today, which is rare. I always long for days like this but when they come my way I don’t know what to do with myself. I am reorganizing a drawer in my bedside table and I find a joint I must have rolled ages ago. Why not? I light it and sit in my window looking over the garden. There is a small white cat taking a nap in the middle of the green field surrounded by rose bushes. I lust after the idea of being that free. Laying around all day in the sun, surrounded by tall grass and flowers. Feeling the wind in my hair, having nothing in particular to worry about. After a while I am almost too high for comfort, so I ash what is left of my joint and climb down out of my window. I sit down in front of a mirror, and brush through my curls until they are shiny and smooth. I section my hair into parts, and give myself two french braids. I pin the ends up by my ears, creating a crown effect. I hear my phone ring. The sound of vibration leads me to my bed. It’s Leah. She sounds like a mess of snot and tears from the second I answer the call. I pleaded with her over and over to slow down. Then between her sobs I hear it.
You are gone.
My heart sinks into my stomach and I don’t know what to say. I drop the phone, I am completely frozen in this awful moment. The air that was once in my lungs can’t find its way back. The heartbreak rips right through me, I scream in a way I didn’t know I could. I cover my mouth to contain it cause I can’t believe it just came out of my mouth. My eyes are uncontrollable. The tears don’t end. It is like I am possessed with agony. I am swept away in the despair; I drown in it. It is above me, behind me, below me. Within me. I’m not here, this isn’t happening. Just as quickly as the storm swallowed me, it spit me back out. I see myself in the mirror. My face is sodden with tears. My body is shaky and cold. I walk to my freezer, and pull out a mostly consumed bottle of vodka. I pour myself a hefty glass over ice. I raise the glass to my lips, my hand shaking the entire way. It burns on the way down, but this is no time for a chaser. I feel warm, then I feel nothing at all. I stare into the glass getting more and more vacant by the minute, and contemplate how to disappear completely. There have been moments in my life where I have wanted to die, but this is nothing like that. Right now I am wishing I never existed at all. I wish I could vanish without a trace of me being left behind. Then I remember that you left me a message. I play the message over and over sitting on my kitchen floor. It rips my fucking heart out. I cry myself into exhaustion but I can’t come close to sleeping. The guilt is gnawing at my every limb, eating me alive. Viscerally and totally. I should have called. I pull up a photo of you and I from years ago. Our smiles are so big and bright, I am almost repulsed by the elation. I remember that day so clearly now, you and I going through dozens of boxes of props and costumes. I can almost smell the dust. We spent hours sorting through them, finding whatever we thought we could use for the show. I didn’t particularly want to help, but I never shot down an opportunity to have your uninterrupted attention. I remember us talking about so many things. My family, my friends, art, your kids, the universe, David Bowie, clowns. There we are captured in our blissed out delirium.We found the set of canes we searched for.
I dig around in an old box of letters and photographs for a little red thumb drive. You made me a playlist on this thumb drive what seems like a lifetime ago now. I listened to it a lot back then, and I will listen to it a lot tonight. I can hear your voice singing along so clearly, like you are right next to me. I turn and there’s nothing there, because you are gone forever. There is nothing I can do, no song I can sing to reach you. I listen to the playlist until I drift off drunk on my living room floor.
I wake up, my face on the carpet. I look at the clock and see it is morning again. I finally got Leah back. Her and I talk for a while. First, we just talk about how tired we are, how sad we are. Then I am overcome with a need to know what happened. She reluctantly tells me that you left by your own hand. I feel what was left of my spirit break into jagged little pieces that push their way out of my skin. How could you leave me like this? I am disgusted by my own selfishness, and somehow start to feel worse than I already do. Thinking about how much pain you must have been in makes me nauseous. I run to the bathroom and dry heave over my sink until the feeling passes. The tiles are cold against my face, which is great because my head is on fire. I can’t see it, but I smell the smoke.
You woke up, and went for a jog. A newer habit of yours we were all surprised that you kept up with. Then you made breakfast for you and Elaine. You took a shower, and got dressed. You read the paper while drinking your first of many forbidden cups of coffee. You grabbed a coat, your keys, got in the car, and drove off into your day. Almost like any other, but today you didn’t stop to take a left on Reams, and then a right on Combs. You just kept going. You drove until you couldn’t anymore. You had reached the land's end. I wonder at what point you realized this was your last drive. When did you know there was no turning back, or going home? I have had a few days in my life where I drove for hours, not knowing where I was going, but I knew I had to get the hell away from everything. Hell, I have even tried to outdrive myself, but there was always the moment I knew I had to go back. I knew that I must drive through the forested night back to the shimmering lights on the river with the hum of my tires on the bridge. I knew I had to come back to kiss my sleeping mother on the forehead, and crawl into bed. I knew I had to go home. I wonder if the point of no return feels crazed or peaceful. My bet is on a little bit of both. You parked the car on the side of the road. Didn’t even take the time to close the door. Left the car wide open with everything but the keys inside. You wandered the beach alone for ages, taking it all in, your last day. Then you walked out into the ocean until it swept you. You left no note, no final requests, or declarations. No reasons why. No goodbyes. No I love yous. You just went back to your mother, and let her envelop you. To take you where we are all from. I choose to believe that it was peaceful and painless, even though I know better. What the fuck else can I do?
I wish I was enough to make you turn the car around. I wish I called enough to let you know you weren’t alone. I wish I visited enough to make sure you knew I cared. I wish I loved you enough to make you float.
Quiandra Watson (she/her) is a writer, musician, and filmmaker from Portland Oregon.
Follow Quiandra on Instagram: @quiandrakw and @Kiona.Fisher