Emotional Negligence

Let me just get this clear right up front.
I hadn't been expecting it.

It was fucked up.
There was so much blood.
I remember coming home and finding her in the bath.
If it hadn't been for the water in the bath looking as it had, I probably wouldn't have noticed straightaway.
She looked so peaceful.
What a fucking cliché.

For a moment I was stunned.
That moment seemed such a long time, as I felt some kind of liquid ice slowly envelope my insides.
I knelt by the side of the bath and knew even before I tried I wouldn't find a pulse in her neck.
She felt cold.
Her skin felt the same though.
Still the same smooth softness.

I couldn't resist looking.
I had to look.
I lifted her right arm out of the water and saw the deep, deep incision she had made along her wrist following her artery.
The image has been burned into my memory.
There was no blood flowing now, but there was an amalgam of colours that made up the wound, right down to the blues of the bruising and the deep purple of her artery.

Her left arm was the same.
God knew how she was able to do it.
I didn't fucking know.

Some movement of the water showed me something else.

She'd cut her thighs as well.

I could taste the bile.
I turned quickly.
I puked over the bathroom floor.

My first question?
How?
How could she do this to herself?

How could she make those cuts?
How could she injure herself so badly and then lie back and slip away?
I checked the sides of the bath.
I couldn't see any signs of water outside the bath.

She hadn't even had second thoughts, as far as I could tell.

How had she made those cuts?
I got off my knees and ran to the bedroom opening the drawer in the chest of drawers moving socks to one side and then the other and didn't find what I knew I wouldn't find.

Fuck.

I kept it razor sharp.
It was so useful.
The size of the blade made light of heavy jobs.
Heavy jobs like butchering yourself.

I pulled my mobile phone out of my pocket.
I dialled nine, nine, nine.
This was the second time I had dialled nine, nine, nine in my life.
The first time, I had been trying to report a burglary.

I told the people I spoke to that she was dead.

I don't remember telling them anything else.

I remember being very surprised and very grateful to the policeman.
I remember being grateful even though he was asking me questions I didn't want to hear.
I kept telling him that I didn't know.

I didn't know she was feeling upset.
I didn't know she was down.
I didn't know she was depressed.

I saw the flash bulbs go off as they took pictures of her in the bathroom.
I saw the flash bulbs go off as they took pictures of her naked in the bathroom, with those grotesque wounds adorning her body like macabre jewellery.
I remember feeling a strong urge to run in there and smash their cameras, smash their faces with their cameras, smash the thoughts they were thinking.

It took a lot effort for me to remember that they were only doing their job.

We hadn't been getting on, I told the policeman.
We just hadn't.
It wasn't anything in particular; it was a whole lot of things that just didn't add up.
I told the policeman that I couldn't remember the last time we had talked about anything other than making a cup of tea.

I found myself straining every fibre of my brain to recall the sound of her voice.
She was slipping away already.
How was this different to us splitting up?

I hated myself at that point.

I explained to the policeman that I hadn't found a note or a letter.
The last time I had seen her, she had been asleep in the bed, as she usually was when I left for work.
We hadn't spoken while I was at work.
What would we talk about?

I saw them take her out of the flat.
I saw them take the body out of the flat.
I remember having to remind myself that it wasn't her anymore.

I wanted to go with her body.
I remember feeling this aching need to go with her body and make sure that her body was safely transported to the mortuary.
I remember asking the policeman if I could go with her body.

He said no.

I had been thinking about splitting up with her, moving out of the flat, getting somewhere on my own.
Now I didn't need to.

I didn't know why I felt so callous.
I just kept thinking to myself that life goes on.

My mobile phone started ringing.
I pulled it out of my pocket.
It was covered in blood.
It was covered in her blood.
My wet hands must have left her bloodstains on the mobile phone when I dialled nine, nine, nine.

It was my Mum calling.
It was then I realized I would have to tell her family.
I remember starting to put together scenarios, running through in my mind what I would say, deciding it would be best to speak to her father first, wondering what I should describe and what I shouldn't.

The policeman asked me if I would accompany him to the police station.
I remember asking why.
He told me that I could help them with their enquiries.
I remember asking what their enquiries would be about.

The policeman held up an evidence bag and asked me if the contents belonged to me.
I said yes.

He said he was arresting me.

He asked me for my mobile phone.

It was then I realized that I wouldn't be able to tell her family.
I remember that I wasn't very grateful to the policeman anymore.

I was surprised.

I didn't want anyone else to tell her family.
That was my job.
I had rehearsed.
I knew them.
I wanted to tell them.

Anyone else would fuck it up.
I felt pain at that moment.
More pain than I have ever felt in my life.
I wanted to tell her family that she was dead.
It was something I had to do.
I had to make amends.

I remember the policeman asking me what I had to make amends for.

Look, you're my solicitor.
I'm innocent okay.
I've been here for five years and I didn't kill her.

I didn't do anything.
I didn't do anything.