Yesterday I watched Chloe Die

Yesterday I watched Chloe die. If only I could have been more alert, I would have stopped it from happening. But I wasn’t, and I have to stop blaming myself. Does one ever move on from the death of a loved one?

I imagine her face and I remember how beautiful she was. Yet underneath that porcelain face and exquisiteness lay a soul haunted by unwavering voices of the past and secrets as dark as the night.

I have reason to believe that Chloe had walked into her own death wanting to die. In fact I know it was out of desolation, her own surrender. She could have as easily just put her hands up and begged for death and it wouldn’t make it any more obvious.

Still that doesn’t hinder my anger with this girl, because I don’t pity her for what she did; I pity her for thinking that she had no other way out. If only I could turn back time and just tell her " yell at her even " that I could give her ten million reasons to stay alive.

I wish I could say “I remember it like it was yesterday” to make it feel more as though it happened a long time ago, but it was literally the day before and every detail is as clear as broad daylight.

Chloe and I had just come out from one of the many café’s along Champs-Elysees heading towards the historic Arc de Triomphe. Yesterday was a lovely Autumn day in Paris, not too warm and not too cold despite the breeze. I remember how the thin striped scarf draped around her neck blew in the wind and how she had her hands in the pockets of her trench coat as though she was feeling very cold.

I was trying not to walk too fast like I usually did; she obviously didn’t care whether she caught up or not. I could practically hear the thoughts buzzing in her head and now wish I did know what was running through her mind. That would at the very least give me the peace of mind I so rightly deserve.

I had already noticed from the beginning of the day that she wasn’t her normal self, though I didn’t question any of it. I shrugged it off as someone just having a less enthusiastic start to the morning like everybody gets from time to time. Not once did it ever cross my mind that Chloe was already planning her suicide.

 You see I don’t " rather didn’t " know Chloe at all. Yesterday was only the third and final time I ever saw her. I came to Paris for a week on my own to relax and unwind without knowing that I would fall in love on the fourth day and get heartbroken on the sixth.

I first met Chloe along the Seine where she was sitting on a bench quietly watching a boat cruise past. I had been sitting on the other end for quite some time engrossed in the book I was reading while having a cigarette and only just realised that somebody was occupying the remaining space when she had already sat herself down.

It didn’t take me another glance to notice how taken aback I was by her beauty and aura of sophistication. That day she was wearing a rather wide black hat and the same coat she had on the day she died. The first thing I noticed was how shiny her locks of dark brown hair were, and how long and perfectly curled her eyelashes " until she took out a pair of enormous sunglasses and put them on.

Imagine how difficult it is trying to sneak a glance at someone sitting directly beside you without having to move an inch! That moment was beyond perfect " me, with the forgotten book in one hand and a burning cigarette in the other; she admiring the scenery with not a care in the world.

The sun wasn’t too bright however, so I suddenly had the thought that maybe this girl knew I was staring dumb-founded at her. It was all very quiet as well, and the only sounds you could hear were the cars that whizzed by in the distance and the decelerating hum of the boat’s engine as it sailed farther away.

The place was virtually empty as the spot was tucked away under a footbridge and had a magnificent view of Notre Dame. There wasn’t anything at all I could fault about that scene, and I keep coming back to it to remind myself why I am still shedding tears.

I felt so silly pretending to read my book and taking long drags of my Marlboro whilst my head buzzed in unison with my palpitating heart. All I knew that I was going to have to start a conversation with this girl even if I had to ruin her peaceful moment with nature.

And so I did. Mind you, my French is as horrible as my singing but I was as confident as any of the locals. I was going to say “It’s beautiful here,” and due to a lack of in-depth research and bad translation books I ended up saying “Tu es jolie,” which literally translates to “You are beautiful”.

I wouldn’t have said it the other way though, because things may have turned out differently too. Chloe must have initially debated for a second whether I was indeed talking to her because she didn’t move a muscle for what seemed like a long time, and then she turned her face towards me and smiled.

It was a genuine smile, and deep inside I was practically bursting with joy. I didn’t realise what I had said until she thanked me in French, and I did mentally punch myself in the gut out of embarrassment.

I can guarantee you that any man would have jumped in the river for a full non-restricted view of her face. And that skin! It shimmered in the sunlight like diamonds, I kid you not. Those lips, those full lips that parted slightly to reveal perfectly white teeth.

“Sorry, my French is very bad,” I said with a little cringe.

She laughed. “I think it’s very cute. But don’t stress yourself, I do speak English well.” And she did.

We carried on talking for a bit about Notre Dame (it was right in front of us and the first thing I could think of) and then about Paris and about my holiday. I was very cautious about how I came across to her as I didn’t want to say something wrong that would end up with her running away.

Then she asked me what book I was reading, and I showed it to her. It’s Misery by Stephen King. Chloe said she had only seen the movie version with Kathy Bates and really liked it. I agreed with her and told her that that’s what had led me to purchasing the novel.

She told me that she liked to read as well and occasionally write poetry. Then she recounted the nights that she would sit there where we sat and wrote in the dark with only the light from a street lamp behind her and the sound of the river in her ears.

I wasn’t only in awe of her beauty but also the words she chose and the way she said it. She made everything sound like a melody, like her brain was actually translating what it wanted to say into words of poetry.

It was also because I could feel the mutual interest between us and that we were both enjoying the moment. She even asked me for a cigarette, and I don’t know if she was being slightly nervous or just being a typical smoker who lit one f*g after the other when in good conversation.

Chloe started telling me about general stuff. She lived in a small studio flat just a few streets away and worked full-time managing her late father’s old bookshop.

“Some people think it’s a boring job,” she went on, “but when you have all these wonderful antique books around you, it transports you back in time. It feels great.”

“I don’t think that’s boring at all,” I said, and I meant that.

I proceeded to tell her how my life was in fact the boring one because I had to sit eight hours a day in front of an office desk poring over paperwork and spilling coffee all over my trousers. I’m not sure how she found this so funny because she was laughing so much, or maybe it was just the way I said it.

I told her about my hometown in England, particularly in the area of Arundel in West Sussex and that it wasn’t much different to the outskirts of Paris. She said she had been to London twice and liked it. As most people from the hills would say, I told her that I found the city too crowded and polluted.

“But Paris is not much different, either,” she smilingly pointed out.

“But I’m only here for a week, aren’t I?” I said, grinning back.

At that moment we heard the church bells ring and I felt like I had been jolted out of a daydream. There was a slightly awkward silence between us for a bit as we surveyed our surroundings again and that gave me sufficient time to muster up my strength.

I asked her if she was happy to grab some lunch with me, and fortunately she said yes. It was a Saturday and her aunt who was co-managing the bookshop was looking after it, so she was free all day.

We ended up in a nearby café called Del’Olympia. She had a small portion of Bolognaise and I had a baguette, and a steaming pot of tea between us. I believe that we sat and chatted in there for at least an hour, and then we had to take our cups outside so we could smoke and continue the never-ending list of topics.

You wouldn’t believe how easy she was to talk to " and me of all people who unreasonably found most types of people annoying. I had never met anyone so likeable, so carefree. Most people would say that you it would take a very long time for one to get to know someone. I personally didn’t believe in that " of course until now.

Two hours into it and I felt like I knew every inch of Chloe " her family background, day-to-day activities, likes and dislikes, etc. And every minute of it and I felt more drawn to her magnetism.

Never in a million years had I thought I would pour out my innermost thoughts to a stranger, yet I did, and I believe that she knew I trusted her already. Maybe that’s where I went completely wrong. I meet this girl for five minutes and already I’m telling her things I’ve never told anyone other than the people closest to me.

But then sometimes we all need to vent out on people who don’t know us as much as our friends and family do, because they can provide you with an objective opinion and not just tell you what you want to hear. In a way I think Chloe had saved me " not in the way I would have saved her, but as a person. She made me feel better and more light-hearted.

Where is Chloe now? The better question was, what is Chloe now? Is she merely a cadaver lying in some morgue as still as the night? Is her spirit wandering around in the places where her old memories kept when she was still alive?

Sometimes you don’t take these thoughts seriously until they happen to you. I’m not exactly religious, but I believe that we don’t just vanish into thin air when we part this world. Sure, we stop existing as our physical human selves, but there must be something more than a conscious invisible entity floating around. Like a piece of memory.

You know when somebody dies and people think they can smell that person’s scent around them, or hear or see something " it’s their footprints, their memories being recounted by the people they have made contact with in their life.

Then again, I don’t really know what to believe in. Some people just say you die when you die. There’s one last gasp of breath, then nothing afterwards. I think about that and it makes me feel very sad, so I’d rather just stick to the better version.

It doesn’t make much difference though, whether you’re dead or not. You make these little imprints here and there in your lifetime and regardless of whether they’re good or bad memories, you will be remembered.

I can’t say the same for Chloe because I wasn’t present in her world for very long, but I have enough to hold on to. It’s just like when you’re casually walking on a street and you see someone die In front of you " they’re a complete stranger to yourself, yet you grieve for that poor soul and the people they’ve left behind.

You think how unfair it is for someone to die so suddenly, especially at such a young age. Still, I don’t pity Chloe for dying. I pity her for putting on this fake smile and boxing herself in, and her failure to ask anyone for help. I could have helped her out of her sorrow, I know I would have.

If only I knew.

It seems like time has ceased to exist as well. It has been about twenty-four hours since I came back from the emergency room, yet I haven’t once left my hotel room. I just feel so exhausted, so empty. I tried to get some sleep last night but ended up tossing and turning in bed, however I did manage a nap at the crack of dawn.

As soon as I woke up, I had this massive headache worse than any hangover. Then everything came crashing back, and the tears returned. Don’t ask me why I cried so much over this girl whom I barely knew for a week, because I don’t have a proper answer to that.

All I know is that I’m not ashamed to cry, and I’ve never even been a crier. Suddenly, I just felt this overwhelming feeling of losing sense of direction. What was I still doing here? What was even my purpose of coming to Paris?

I’m sure Chloe’s relatives and friends had rushed to the hospital as soon as they found out. I’d managed to call Chloe’s aunt from her mobile and tell her what happened. She was obviously in a state when she heard the news. I wasn’t sure whether to keep the phone or not; in the end I left it at the nurse’s desk to give to her aunt when she arrived along with her other possessions.

I didn’t even wait for her, I just left. I felt like I didn’t have a right to be there. In actual fact I felt responsible for her death even though I had nothing to do with it. I didn’t want to have to face anyone that actually knew Chloe, and to have to recall the events to them would have been horrifying.

Although Chloe had told me a generic lecture of her extensive history, I don’t really know much about the kind of relationship she had with her aunt or the rest of her family. I know that her parents divorced when she was young, then her mother ran away with another man, and her father passed away several years later due to ill health, but that’s it.

Today at sunset I stood on the hotel balcony watching the sky darken. The view was majestic; you can see La Tour Eiffel from the distance and the buildings surrounding it. I had the urge to smoke my first f*g since the unexpected chain of events, so I grabbed my coat and searched the pockets for my lighter.

As I was looking for it, I found this piece of paper folded several times into a tiny square. To say I was shocked would be an understatement. It was a letter from Chloe, and it read:

Dear Shaun,

I want to thank you with all my heart for keeping me company

these past few days. I’m so glad I met you, because not only you

have been a friend, but I really felt like someone understood me.

I know you’ve been wondering why I’ve been acting so strange,

but there are some things I cannot tell you right now. It’s not

because I don’t trust you, but because I’m not ready to share

them yet. In time, maybe I will. Who knows! No matter how

much we try to plan our lives, it never works out quite the same

way we want it to. You just have to go along with it, right?

I’m still thinking about all our conversations, and it’s funny

because I feel like we’ve covered every single topic I could think of!

Still, I don’t think we would run out of things to talk about. Are you

really only staying here for a week? I’m kidding. Of course you have

a life to come back to, and a future to think about. Don’t worry about

me, I guess I’ll be fine. I’m just going through a rough time right now.

Actually, I’ve been going through one for as long as I can remember.

Sometimes I think, is there ever going to be an end to this? I know you

said that no one has a perfect life, but when does it ever come to

highly flawed but slightly better? Am I always going to remain under

this bottomless heap? Sorry, I don’t expect you to answer any of these

questions. And don’t feel guilty if you think that you haven’t helped me

in any way, because no one in the world can. I think only I can help

myself " I just need to learn where to start. When this is all over and

I’m much better, I think I can live as I wish.  Maybe the best remedy

Is to move far, far away where there aren’t any people around so I

have all the time to ponder on things. This is why I’ve really enjoyed

being with you, because I felt closer to home. I know you’re leaving in

two days and I wish you don’t get to read this until you’re on the plane

back to England, but I wish you nothing but true happiness and contentment.

Even if we never see each other again, I want you to know that I will

always think of everything you said to me, especially when I become

a better person. Again, thank you.

Love,

Chloe

Trying to hold back tears, I folded the note back into the same way it was folded before and slipped it back into my coat pocket. The first thing I thought was, this wasn’t a suicide note. It was pretty plain obvious when Chloe talked about ‘becoming better’ that she hadn’t been planning to kill herself when she was writing it.

I gathered from her initial words that she must have written it sometime during early afternoon yesterday, most likely when we split up after a morning together so she could go home for an errand and I ventured into the city alone.

That meant something had happened during those last couple of hours apart before we met up again for coffee. What it was, I don’t know. Her words ‘even if we never see each other again’ don’t really imply anything, because if she meant that literally, that would contradict her other statements.

It was doing my head in, it really did. It gave me a bit of relief that she genuinely liked me as a person, but it saddened me even more to think that there was a chance I could’ve stopped her no matter how much she said that nobody else could have helped her. Because I could have at least keep her alive, even if she was at the lowest point of her existence.

What’s even more frustrating is that the two halves of my brain are still mentally debating over keeping the letter. I’m leaning more onto the choice of retaining it so as to keep a physical memory of Chloe, but keeping it forever would most likely mean never completely moving on. Why is this so difficult?

I felt so angry after that - at the whole thing, at her for giving me another reason to hate myself. I spent the rest of the evening going back to all our conversations, trying to remember if she had unconsciously hinted or foreshadowed her death. Nothing. It seems so surreal now to me, all those hours talking, learning and sharing.

It suddenly feels like a nightmare I've just woken out of. Maybe, just maybe, if I fall asleep again, all the hurt will go away.