Magpie 78

I drop the last paint roller onto the pile of other paint brushes and palettes. It makes a loud noise as it hits the other things I've spent the last fifteen minutes gathering.

I shouldn't be doing this.

I look around, the room is bare now; all the things boxed up in the next room. But I can still imagine our bed in the middle of the room, with the bed-side-tables beside it, along with the half-price lamps we'd bought just after buying the house. I can still visualise the shelves that sat on the furthest wall, that we'd spent ages getting the right position for. We had stood there for a long time, 'oohing' and 'ahhing' and sighing frustratedly.

"They would look so nice here, since this wall is so bare." We'd spent so long on deciding-our first home had to be our perfect one. It's funny, a shelf was such a big deal...and now it's those things that you realise just dont matter. They're not important.

There were four marks, where i'd pulled out the screws from those shelves.

Man, this feels so wrong.

'KRISTY LOVES LUCAS' is written on the wall. The wardrobe used to be there, covering it. The writing brings back memories from that night, when we'd stumbled to bed after a couple of drinks. We sat there the whole night, laughing at everything like we weren't just lovers but also bestfriends. Because we were. She was more than a lover, and more than a bestfriend. She was everything.

She wrote it on the wall, laughing hysterically, her long, gorgeous brown hair running curly down her back. Her teeth almost sparkled, even in the dimmed lights, as did her eyes which I'd always loved about her. We hid it with the wardrobe, the next day. I don't really know why. Not in shame or anything, but it was just something we did. And that was why the wardrobe was unevenly spaced between the window and the door.

Not anymore. It's gone. It's outside, just like everything else. I'm getting rid of it, just like the bed and the shelves, the sheets, the pillows, the quilts, her clothes, the pictures, the silly ornaments she loved to keep, the lamps, the picture of the ocean she'd had since I met her, her little stuffed bear, her candles, her alarm clock and also mine. Her jewellery, her makeup and her mirror. All gone. Just like her. I had boxed up almost everything that I could that reminded me of her. I would get rid of it whilst the paint was drying, most probably.

Everything is just too much. I keep count of the days that she's been gone. It brings me to tears but I just know I have to do this. I have to get the last of her out of my life. If I can't have all of her, then I don't want any of her. I'm going to paint the room and destroy all my memories of her. I need to. I just cant quite work out why. I kneel down to pull the lid off the tin of paint. She hated this colour, I remember she told me it was the one we would definitely not use, the day we went out to pick room colours. Mabey this wasn't such a good colour to use.

I can't believe I'm going to do this. I sit on the floor and cross my legs, giving myself something I hadn't in such a long time; a moment to think it through. I'd done alot of thinking since she was gone, but only about her. Not really what I was doing to myself. I sit like we had to, right up to year twelve at school assembly. All of a sudden the memories flash back. Kristy and I had gone to school together, but she was real shy and so we never dated until after we graduated. We hardly even knew each other in high school, but there wasn't one day I didn't melt over her and everything she did. She was perfect. The tears prick at my eyes again and a lump forms in my throat. All of a sudden, my stomach begins tossing and turning with some form of butterflies. Exactly like on our first date. It's been 874 days since then. I keep count because it was one of the most important and happiest days of my life. I can't seem to let go of it...or her. My stomach stirs again, and the memories, although so long ago are fresh and magical in my mind. Straining my heart. I fall back and lay on my back. The tears run down my face and I cry. I just cry to get it out. I cry because I'm hurting; because I miss her and I cant have her, I love her, she's gone, she was everything, she was perfect. I cry because I've held it in for so long.

Who am I kidding? I can't do this, I shouldn't do this.

I thought this urge to clear her from my life was just like the reason we covered up the writing on the wall; it was just something we did with no real explanation needed. I wipe my eyes with my sleeve and sit up again. I feel like suddenly I'm awoken. I realise the silence I've been living in, what I've put myself through. Like something magical, I suddenly realise that I can't change what's happened. But she's safe and oneday I'll rejoin her. I turn on the radio, I call a friend and I swap the brushes and paint for everything I tried to get rid of.