I always
knew there was something strange going on with Rhonda. Maybe it was the ever
present distant look in her eyes that made me ponder so or maybe it was her
frequent absences from school.
Nevertheless, it came as a shock to everyone when she blew out her brains
with her dad's .44 Magnum. She did always talk about going out with a bang.
I never
could have thought of taking it in the literal sense, of course.
The signs are often laid
out in plain sight, demanding to be heard, but not a soul pays heed.
Rhonda Jones
wasn’t a goth or a punk, she didn’t have a disarrayed family and she wasn’t a
lonely nerd. Rhonda Jones was the charismatic, beautiful all-round achieving
girl that people think only exist in movies or in dreams. Which is why people stared unbelievingly when they first heard of her suicide.
She used to live 2
blocks down the street from me. We'd been together since the time she moved into our neighbourhood with her family from Nottingham when she was six. Though, we failed to preserve the close bond we had as kids as we grew older. Before anyone could notice, our frequent playdates that used to ultimately stretch to sleepovers transitioned into rare hello's in the school hallways.
I still
remember the sound of the bullet shooting out from the gun when she pulled the
trigger.
I still hear
the bang in my nightmares and watch myself running to the source all the while
thinking how good of a story it would be to tell Rhonda.
I still am
struck with flashbacks of the sirens of the ambulance, the shriek of her
mother, the silent sobs of her father and the curious prying eyes of the neighbours.
And I still
invariably shudder when I remember myself standing under the oak tree that
stands in front of Rhonda’s room, wishing with all my might that it wasn’t what
I expected, that it wasn’t whom I expected.
Silently, I shook violently as I saw the plight of her body lying lifelessly on
a stretcher, blood still pouring out of numerous indiscernible sources - her nose, her head, her mouth. Even her eyes seemed to be crying tears of blood.
That image
has been stuck with me forever. Not a day has passed, when I don’t suddenly
remember it. every minute I spend laughing with others, I spend in guilt when I'm alone. Thinking and pondering on what-ifs.
What if I had done something sooner?
What if I had tried to make an effort to salvage our relationship earlier?
What if I had acted upon those signs instead of playfully dismissing them?
What if I had paid more attention, tried to rise my head up from my ceaseless self-absorption?
I don't know why she killed herself and I never will. All I can hold on to are the summer days we spent under her oak tree when we were children. When we didn't and couldn't care, living in a place stuck in spring with blooming flowers and exquisitely coloured butterflies.
Rhonda Jones
dissipated the pain and turmoil by dividing and distributing it to three other
people to carry.
Her parents
and me.
