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  • Published: 13 Apr 2013
  • Updated: 13 Apr 2013
  • Status: Complete
Lucy died on a Tuesday. Lucy is now free.


1. Lucy


It was a Tuesday evening, when Lucy committed suicide. We sat, side by side, on the iron bridge that crossed the railroad, while our legs swung monotonously back and forward, in a synchronized movement. We had done that a lot lately, just sitting there, watching the sun set, and the darkness getting thicker around the trees. The air would get cooler, and our breath would be visible in the dark. We did not talk, maybe we said a few things, but never actually talked. The wind lifted her long, brown hair and played with it. So delicate that I had to enviously bite my lip every time I looked at it. It was silly. I was silly. Lucy would always tell me how much she hated me, for being prettier than her. How much she loved me, because I did not realize. I would never realize it, especially not now. And it did not even matter. Nothing matters anymore. She shivered as the wind stroke her back, and I could see the goosebumps spread on her arm. Her scarred arm, but she did not care. I knew it too well anyways, she always said. I knew she dug a razor from a pencil sharpener into her skin, no matter where it was. Her wrists, arms, legs, hips and stomach were a bitter proof of this. I knew she starved herself into something smaller than size zero. I did not understand why, but I pretended to. I just knew she did it, and I could not change it. And it was okay. Without a word, we sat there, just looking at each other. She tried to smile, but the smile never made it to her eyes, there were too many heavy burdens to keep the happiness from ever reaching them. From a distance I could hear a train approaching, the sound of a working, mechanical body, and the distanced sight of yellow headlights. She laid her left hand on my right and stroke it, with in a gentle gesture.

“Do you think it hurts?” she said. I was confused; just shrugged my head, not saying anything. What could I have said? No? Would it have changed her mind? Nevertheless, in that precise moment, she smiled. Not more than a half second, but a bright smile, one that reached her eyes.

“Sorry” she whispered. Then I felt her hand slip away from mine, and numbly I watched her slip into the darkness below the bridge, the exact moment the train passed by on the railroad.

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