It's my fault that she's dead.
I remember every detail of her still. Her golden hair shining in the sunlight, illuminating her angelic face. She was so perfect- she should still be alive, finding love, her perfect job, getting married.
Instead she is gone, and they all think I killed her.
No one but me really knows what happened.
It was a freezing night in December. It was December 2nd 2007 to be precise. I had spent the evening at Matt's house; my boyfriend at the time. I can't really remember the details of that night, but it was blissful, filled with his kisses and caresses.
I was making my way back home at about 11: 30 pm- it was dark, so dark it seemed like the night might engulf me, but my house was only a 5 minute walk from Matt's, and the streets were lit up brightly. At the time I was only 16. Not old enough to be convicted of murder.
I recall walking up the flight of stairs to get to the door of my tiny flat, pushing open the creaking door... and there she was.
It was too horrible for words. To this day, I can't help breaking down every time I see the image of her body in my mind. Her blonde hair was a halo around her pale face, like an angel. She looked small, insignificant next to the destruction surrounding her. She was wearing jeans and a leather jacket, which were barely distinguished because of the amount of blood smeared over them. There were rips in her clothing, and so much blood. There was blood everywhere.
I stood still, not daring to move. I kept telling myself that it must be a nightmare, this stuff never happens in real life, but it was all too real.
It was so horrifying that I refused to acknowledge what had happened, instead I focused on her bag which was tossed to one side. She always loved that bag. There was an envelope inside it, specks of blood covering the pristine white. I reached hesitantly, opening it. An invitation to her 17th birthday party. She was only 16, too young to die.
Suddenly, something inside of me fell apart, broken, and I fell to the floor and sobbed, feeling desperately for a pulse, my tears smearing the blood stains. I grabbed my phone, hands shaking, and dialed for an ambulance.
They arrived at 11:51. She was announced dead at the scene.
Now, as I lie on the hard prison bed, staring up at the dull ceiling, I try to fight back tears.
I have years ahead of me in jail, convicted for murder. The days drag past, eliminating any hope I held to get out of this hell. And the worst part is, I can't prove my innocence. All the evidence points conveniently at me- my fingerprints on the kitchen knife, me 'finding' her at the scene, they even spouted lies that I was so jealous of her that I was caught up in a rage of envy, killing my best friend.
I blame myself for her death, yes, because I wasn't there to answer the door when she came to deliver the invitation. I was locked in Matt's embrace, entrapped in his warm kisses. Oblivious while she bled to death.
I should have been there, but instead the murderer got in, cutting her life short. And they're out there, getting away with it. While I am here, my life wasting away. I never thought something like this would happen to someone like me.
I guess I was wrong.
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