Tower and Town, November 2013

November

"Clapton," I whisper hesitantly, "Let's break up."

His eyes grow large as saucers at my words, his voice caught up in his throat. I try not to look at him, fearing the expression I might find on his face. Would he hate me? I wonder to myself. It's a while before he replies back.

"Why? Was it something I did?" he asks quietly and with confusion, trying to catch my eye. "November, look at me."

I carefully raise my gaze to the cars zooming past us, not looking at his face.

"My feelings have changed.. .Sorry, Clapton, it's just.. .it's just I think it would be best if we move on."

He sits there, looking straight ahead. And I'm afraid. Afraid that he would hate me, that he would despise me. His silence is deafening.

"Clapton?" I ask, wanting to know what he is thinking about.

He looks down and takes out a folded note from his trouser pocket. With a shaky breath, he presses the folded paper into my hand. He keeps his hand on mine, and I can feel the warmth of it. I look up into his eyes and my heart tightens inside my chest. His eyes...his eyes are filled with such pain, such sorrow. Unable to look at his face any longer, I cast my eyes downwards to our joined hands.

"What's this?" I begin to say, but suddenly bright yellow lights come speeding towards us, blinding, honking furiously. It isn't even a minute - no - it isn't even a second before the speeding car swerves and cannons into Clapton's side.

A whirlwind of colours and shapes flash before my eyes; nausea envelopes my senses. Then, I begin to feel numb. No more pain. No more anything. My vision blurs, and the last thing I am aware of is Clapton's firm hand in mine and the soft splashing of rain.

Bright light forces me to open my eyes from a dreamless sleep. My vision is still blurry, and a dull ache in my head forces me to shut my eyes once again. Waiting a few seconds, I open my eyes once more to find that I am in a hospital bed. I shift my gaze to the side, where my mum sleeps on a chair. I try calling out to her, but my voice is hoarse and scratchy. Yet, she hears me anyway.

She pushes herself tiredly up from the chair and sits on my bed. "You were asleep for a whole day after the accident," I hear her say.

"Huh?" I ask in confusion. What happened? All I remember are bright yellow lights...and pain.

"Because of the rain," she explains softly, "the other driver lost control on the slippery road and collided with the car you and Clapton were driving."

The car that Clapton was driving. Something snaps within me as I remember. Where is Clapton? Where is he? I struggle up, but sickness hits me hard and I fall back down onto the pillows. Guilt and worry stab at me. Where is he?

She is silent for a moment, and then speaks quietly. "He's gone."

Gone? Dead. An image of a smiling Clapton floods my mind. How can he be gone? Mum starts to apologise, but I don't hear it. All I can think about is that a person who was so close to my heart.. .is gone.

In my shock, I do not see her stand up to go to her purse. I am only nudged out of my thoughts when my mum holds something out in front of me: a folded note, covered with blood stains.

"You were found with this note in your hands, and you wouldn't let go," she says solemnly. "I'll leave you for a bit. I'm going to speak to one of the nurses."

I stare at the blood soaked folded note in my hands. My mind is blank as I open the note. In perfect handwriting, a single sentence worn out by rain and by blood sits perfectly in the centre of the wrinkled paper.

"Without your love, I'd rather die."

Alice Cook