Forbidden

         Standing on the unsteady green garden chair that swayed back and forth on the uneven grassy hill, the bitter wind pricked at my eyes were tears formed a blurry vision. An overwhelming numbness made my hands tremble, realising that it’s finally my turn. My turn to finish what was started. To find those who vanished from my life. To keep the frayed rope from moving recklessly by the hasty wind. Those two significant letters – N+D – carved only inches away from me, reminding me that this, where I stood, was my destiny. To have no destiny. Or perhaps to teach a wounding lesson to a specific heartless woman.

         Two months ago, only two months ago, I was swimming in my back yard swimming pool, surrounded by crystal blue water with the boy who stole my heart. Our parent had sat on the deck, cooking up a braai and chatting swiftly about the latest gossip or football game. It was a typical Sunday afternoon, a tradition that our families had seemed to settle into years ago. It was the day to relax after church, relax the same day God did.

         My boyfriend and I were the only ones who knew about our undisclosed relationship. The religion our families succumbed to would only cause the worst reaction, and it was decided by us both that we would keep it all on the down-low. The sneaking around, stealing forbidden kisses and exchanging subtle winks… It was all so mysteriously refreshing. We’d carved out names into the tree that sat on the meeting edge of our properties, the one right at the back that sat on the hill. It was simple, just below the second branch up on the tree.

         Since our families were such good friends as well as, of course, neighbours, they decided to share a garden. The tree was the only one that separated the shared three acres. It was the place where he and I grew up, played in and climbed every day. It was where we shares our first kiss, our first trade of “I love you’s”. It was the place it all started, and the place it would all finish.

         “Nothing perfect lasts,” he once said. “Nothing stays good forever.” He thought that a good phase could last years, and shatter in minutes. I’d taken it all for granted, I hadn’t listened to those words. I never believed them like he did. I never looked close enough, observed enough to see the truth behind them. Maybe if I had it would all be the same.

         The beginning was a Thursday afternoon. Mother was still at work in her big lawyer office, and since father was a part time journalist, he was due home soon. Departing the bus, I strutted through the front door of the house, loudly announcing I was home as I kicked my shoes off my feet and dropped my bag right next to them.

         I should have been prepared for what I saw, but how could I have been? Nobody could have. Because what I saw, my father sitting in his cream, suede recliner, slumped forward. Red splattered over the wall next to him, a once polished gun in his left hand and a distinct hole in his temple. I wasn’t sure how long I stood there in shock before I felt my jelly legs again, scrambling to the phone and hitting the three numbers every person knew by heart. Little did I know my voice would be as helpful as my shaking hands.

         Instead, I called my mother. I was still unable to talk clearly, all my words mushing into one big slur of panic. Mother heard the panic immediately, hanging up and rushing through the door less than five minutes before an ambulance came. I was told to go to my room.

         I thought I’d find some sort of relief in there, but I never did. My walls felt they were closing in on me, the shadows squeezing the air from my lungs until I could no longer breathe. The darkness was relishing in my panic, the sounds of cries echoing around the small space. Claustrophobia won. I ran down the stairs, ready to run far away, or maybe to the only one who could make me forget. But when I neared the door, I found a white, plastic, zipped bag being rolled slowly through the front door.

         The next thing I remember properly was the freshly turned pile of dirt, a blurry tomb stone and strong arms wrapped around my body, gentle fingers wiping each tear that fell down my face. It helped, having him so close and being there for me when my mother left half way through the ceremony. I couldn’t tell if it was simply too much, or – dare I think of such a thing – boredom.

         “I’m going to tell them,” he said, only a week after the funeral. Hearing those words froze half my heart in fear. He wanted to tell his parents about us, but I didn’t want to. I knew what would happen, all the trouble it could cause. I didn’t want him hurt. But he insisted it would make him happy.

         Looking back now, I should have retaliated more, or even discussed it more. I should have stopped him from doing something so stupid. But he was persistent, he would have done it whether I asked him to do it or not. And that I can’t blame him for. I could never have blamed him for wanting to tell the truth.

         So he did it. He told them. Not about us, but about him. And he never ever told me how it went. I never really had the chance to ask, really. He had begun to distance himself significantly from me, and I could never think of what happened in that house, but I knew it was bad. His texts stopped and so did his daily visits.

         “I’m busy, babe,” was his excuse. Every time, and there was nothing I could do. All I could do was watch him slowly wither into a shell, watch his insides break. His parents had always smiled kindly, and waved at me from across the church aisle, and I’d done the same in return.

         It really hit me the next session at church. He and I were asked to retrieve some puzzles for the kids at Sunday School, when his sleeve fell. It was the last thing I‘d expected, slashes of red cuts along his wrists. Different directions, some old, some new, some shallow and some deep. He left me there as he pulled his sleeves back down as I stared after him, my hand over my mouth to stop the sobs escaping.

         I spent that evening in our tree. I sat, staring at his bedroom window and running my thumb along our initials. That night, although I had dismissed it a lot, I’d realised how sour my mother had become since my father’s death. She had become intolerant and a little stricter, digging her head into her work more than usual. She would come home later than normal, too.

         I sat alone in my room on his and I’s second year anniversary. I tried calling him, texting him, but not a single reply lit up my screen. I was getting antsy, a bad feeling settling in my stomach. He hadn’t been to school that day, and at sunset I decided to walk over. Just to see him.

         I didn’t get to the front door. I passed my mother in the kitchen, who had coincidently thrown a sick day. Her voice tore through me, and I’m not sure how I managed the pain of her words.

         “Your faggot friend hung himself,” she had said, reading a magazine. If it hadn’t been for my grip on the counter, I would surely have fallen to the ground in a pile of nothingness. “Carved your name into his chest. Disgusting.”

         At first, it was denial. I had stood in the kitchen, my mind racing. Because no, he was the only thing I had. He was the moon to my stars. He was my whole heart and soul. He wouldn’t have done that, he loved me, he told me he would never leave.

         Then denial turned into anger. He left me alone. I had nobody anymore. My mother no longer cared, and he was the only one I cared to talk to at school. Nobody mattered but him as it was. He told me he would never leave.

         I’d gathered more information the next day. He had hung himself on the second branch up on our tree, my name carved in sharp handwriting into his chest. He loved me. He took his own life. The only person who could ever possibly cheer me up with a single kiss. The only person who could give me butterflies through a simple smile. The only person who could make me high from a kiss. And he wasn’t here anymore.

         I sat on the second branch that night, reading Great Expectations out loud and hoping he would hear. It was his favourite book, he’d always been the classic type.

         The police had taken the rope away and the chair he had used. I was grateful for that, I never would have touched the tree if I had seen those. So when I did manage to swallow the fear and climb to the second branch to read, I had flashbacks of his smile and imagined what he would have said if he were there.

         I finished the book by sunrise, a new sort of determination hitting me. I strolled inside, just in time to catch my mother leaving for work. She stopped as she saw me, my face red with anger and purpose, snarling the two words I would never regret.

         “I’m gay.”

         It was perhaps an hour or so before she left for work, leaving me with a few bruises and a long lecture sizzled into my brain. She, from then on, sent me to my room after school. A single word said to her resulted in no dinner. Looking her in the eye earned me a slap.

         It was then I finally understood. I understood the reason I couldn't save him. And the one thing I could turn to was that small razor that hid in my bathroom. The one I never thought I would yield to.

         It lasted one tiresome week. I determined each situation as a possible death, evaluated each possible way I could die. What numbed me was the fact that nothing I thought scared me. Instead, I craved the end of each scenario, almost begging it to be real. I wanted to see my boyfriend and father again.

         And that was what lead me to here and now.

         A duplicate setup. His name in my chest like mine was in his. Our initials carved into the tree in perfect sight, finally understanding why he chose this branch. The rope, dampened from the newly pouring rain, hooked round my neck. One step will end it all, one small step off the green garden chair and it will be the end of all the pain I have struggled to endure. The thought alone is thrilling. Did he feel like this too?

         I can finally ask my father why he did what he did, and I can see the love of my life again. I can escape the woman who raised an unworthy son, and escape the wrongness of the world.

         It’s been a steep mountain where there has been nowhere to climb yet everywhere to fall. Holding on is finally unbearable. So I’m letting go.