That night was the end of everything, and the beginning. The end of something is always the start of something else, even if you can’t see it at the time.
What does she remember? The heat of the day that lingered on into the evening; the ceaseless rain that followed; the earth beneath her feet, solid and unyielding; the way she floated up above her body for a moment, wondering what was going to happen next, almost as if it had nothing to do with her at all.
Sometimes she doesn’t know who she is any more. What she does know is that the girl she was died that night, and somebody else took her place. Ever since, this new person has been scrabbling for a foothold, clinging on to the rock face, dirt under her fingernails. Like trying to breathe underwater.
There are very few people in her new life that know about the old one. It’s better that way. She avoids the awkward questions, changes the subject. Acts like she is a normal person, just like everyone else. When underneath her skin, guilt and lies crawl like cockroaches.
When you leave something behind you, you think that’s it. It’s gone. But you can’t leave yourself behind. This is it; this is you, for life.
She’s been ignoring the past for a long time, but she’s beginning to wonder if she will be able to ignore it for ever. It lives in her, like a tumour or a parasite. Maybe now it’s time to try and make sense of it, to wrench it out into the light, examine it. Face it.
Maybe it’s only by going back that she will be able to move forward.