Love Betrayed

Diane lay with her eyes closed, just the slightest smile. She seemed so peaceful, without a care. I wanted to lean forward and kiss her; to wake her. Just hold hands, as we often did. To tell her how much I loved her.

We would never have those moments again. I’d failed her.

Stepping back from the coffin, I closed my eyes. I wanted to scream, to cry. It was wrong; unfair.

“Be a man,” my father complained when I cried after her death.

How do you ‘be a man’ when the girl you love is dead, and you are forced to share these last moments with people who drove her to this? I couldn’t look at them as I walked past to take a seat. I hated them. I hated myself.

Sitting, waiting for the service to begin, I cried, remembering our first conversation, less than six months earlier.

I had been standing outside this church. Rooted to the spot, unable to enter. Inside, the funeral for my best mate, Richard, was about to begin. He’d crashed into a truck parked at night without lights.

“He was your best friend.”

I turned towards the voice. At first I didn’t recognize her. The girl looked little like the Diane I knew from college; normally camouflaged by a knee length pleated skirt and baggy blouse. First in form for three years, and one of only five, now four in Advanced Math, she always seemed indescribably sad and alone, with no real friends. I’d never spoken to, or even acknowledged her outside of class.

I just nodded, worried if I spoke I’d cry. My best friend was gone.

I remembered my father’s warning. ‘men don’t cry.’

Diane saved me. “Could we go in together?”

I nodded and walked slowly. Diane walked alongside.

Once inside, we sat together. I couldn’t talk.

As the service began, I found myself blinking rapidly. Men don’t cry I reminded myself. I felt a soft hand hold mine, giving a gentle squeeze. I glanced at Diane, looking at me, tears welling in her eyes. I gently squeezed back.

Leaving the service, I was surprised when she walked close, holding my hand with one hand, and grasping my arm tightly with the other, as if afraid to let go. Standing outside, Diane hesitated for a moment. “Thanks for letting me sit with you.” She smiled just a little.

For the first time, I saw her. In three years, I’d never bothered to look.

“Thank you.”

Her smile disappeared, and she stepped quickly away from me. “I have to go.”

Confused, I stood watching her hurry to a couple standing beside a car.

She seemed to cower away from the man as he opened the door, and she slid inside.

As they drove away, she looked at me and gave a slight, quick wave, as if not wanting to be caught.

I was snapped back to the present by the priest. “We are here today to mourn the passing of Diane, and offer what support we can to her loving family.”

I wanted to stand and scream. “What loving family? The father and mother who helped drive her to this end?”

I remained seated. I had failed her yet again. I could only bury my head in my hands and weep, trying not to attract attention. I could hear the priest drone on about faith being a source of strength in such times. I just wanted the service to be over.

Again, I was dragged from my thoughts by the priest’s words.

“Suicide is a mortal sin. One which should prevent Diane from entering Heaven, however, God alone can decide if a soul is worthy to enter his Kingdom. We must pray for the soul of Diane; that God will see the aberration of her mind that caused her to take this action and allow her to enter.”

Aberration of her mind! What of the aberrations of everyone else’s minds that drove her to this? Her parents, this priest who told her to pray for her own sins, and me. Especially me. The bastard boyfriend. Had I been the final straw?

Before I realised, I was on my feet; pointing, shouting. “Pray that God might allow her into Heaven! She deserves Heaven more than any of us. More deserving than her father, her mother. You, her priest, or me. We all drove her to this! Tears were streaming down my face. When I stopped shouting the church was silent. Everyone was looking at me in shock. The looks said it. They thought I was mad.

I felt a grip on my shoulder. Someone I didn’t know. “You need to leave.”

I stood, glaring at Diane’s parents, shaking my head. They glared back at me. Her sister, Carol, looked at me, nodding her head so slightly. She closed her eyes for a moment, before opening them and looking directly at me. Again, she nodded.

The grip became tighter, pulling me back. “Leave now!”

I turned, stumbling. He dragged me down the aisle and pushed me roughly outside. I stood staring at the door for a moment, then walked slowly to my parents’ car.

They had allowed me to borrow it and attend Diane’s funeral, on the promise I would be back at the farm in time to help milk the cows. When I promised, I knew I would not be and didn’t care. My parents and the cows could wait. I needed to say goodbye to Diane.

I drove to the cemetery and parked at the back of the carpark. Walking through the Catholic section, I couldn’t find an open plot. Walking further, I found the only open plot; in the Independent section. Surely the Church wouldn’t be so mean? Walking away, behind the backhoe that must have dug Diane’s grave I leaned against the fence and waited. I could not stop crying, Silent tears, and pain in my chest so sharp, I thought my heart would stop.

Twenty or so minutes later, the hearse pulled up, and I saw a coffin placed in the device covering the open grave. Several minutes later, Diane’s family and other mourners approached the grave. The Church had been so mean.

I watched the graveside service from a distance and waited until everyone had left. Walking slowly to the grave, I knelt, looking down at her coffin. It struck me so hard. The only girl I loved was gone. We had all killed her.

I wanted to die. I was crying so hard; I couldn’t breathe; the pain in my chest even worse than before. Why couldn’t I just die?

“I’m sorry.” It had been one of the last things I had said to her when she was alive and was all I could say now she was gone.

Looking up, I saw the caretaker, now standing beside the backhoe; waiting for me to leave so that he could complete his job. I slowly stood and walked back to the car. For several moments, I sat, not able to move. I saw the clock on the dash. I was late. I would be in serious trouble.

I slowly drove out of town, then once on the open road, pushed the accelerator to the floor. Three times on the short straight stretches, the speedo needle wavered around one hundred miles per hour. I was driving like a mad man. I didn’t care if I crashed.