Silence is all I can hear now. I can see everyone speaking, but I sense what they say more than hear it. I’m always off in some other world. A world so far from perfection yet so close to it. It’s a world that changes depending on my mood and what it is that I’m thinking about. Or should that be who I’m thinking about? Some times when I’m in that world I forget all that’s happened and everything seems absolute. For some people the death of a loved one is the end of themselves. They cease to live their lives as they used to. Becoming robots in their everyday activities and the damned in a supreme hell of memories. For others the death of someone close to them brings them despair. But it also makes them realize that anything can happen and that everyday should be the best day of your life. Everyday you need to cherish the people close to you and tell them that you love them. It makes them realize that today or tomorrow could be the last of their life. So they learn.
Although the pain of losing someone never lessens, it does get easier to deal with and time eventually makes the realization of their death occur less often. For the first two months all I could feel about Sam’s death was sorrow. But here recently, anger struck me. Any god that exists, I was mad at. I told my friend that if a god could be killed, I would probably do it. I know now that is a horrible thing to say, but at the time it was the best way to describe my anger and frustration. I’m still mad but I do not want to kill any gods.
There are some days when Sam is constantly in my thoughts. There are some days when I’m infuriated with myself for not being there to help him when he needed it the most. It’s not my fault. I know this. If I had been there and tried to help him we both might have gotten killed. Two parents mourning for their child is better than four mourning parents.
Sam’s death was on a Friday and upon our return to school the following Monday we were offered condolence by our teachers, principal, and guidance counselor. Very few people went to them for comfort. We turned to our friends. After noticing the remnants of a permanent marker drawing on my arm an idea struck me. The school staff had told us that if there was anything we could do at school that would help us deal with Sam’s death then we could talk to them about it. Well of all things we could have done, like having a candle light vigil and the whatnot, I chose to draw on the wall.
When Sam was still alive he and I would draw on each other almost daily. We were Sharpie artists just trying to pass the time in gym class because we had nothing better to do. With my injured knee I couldn’t participate in the activities that my other friends decided to do. Sam would always sit with me on the sidelines and we would draw. Nautical stars were his, regular stars were mine. To us skin was canvas that could be washed and reused over and over again. I’d be hard pressed to remember a day when either of us went home without ink on our skin.
Considering all of this, I thought it would be appropriate to draw for him. So in our first period classroom I pulled out my Sharpies and attacked the wall with tears in my eyes and fear in my heart. The fear was because the desk I was standing on kept rocking and my look out kept leaving me. After having my arm fall asleep many times I had written “In loving memory of Sam Covington 12-28-89 to 4-30-05”
Then each of the class came up to wall, grabbed a marker and signed their name underneath his. It wasn’t until a few days later that I realized I had written the wrong dates down. His birthday was in January, not December. And the year of his death was a year late, he died in 2004. I didn’t get a chance to correct my errors, but someone else did later that day.
Many things have changed since Sam died. People have changed, interests have changed, views have changed, futures and lives have changed. Because of Sam’s death I have made friends with people I didn’t think had any interests in being friends with me. People who I used to know well are now mysteries to me. Water is now an element of fear, suspicion, and hatred. Sam died in water. His lungs filled with it. His body unable to get oxygen. He drowned, just a few miles from my home, in the St. Mary’s River. A friend of mine was there. Ashley Sherman. She said that she tried to help Sam, she just couldn’t find him. She’s said other things about his death but no one is sure if they’re true. No one asks that many questions about the day Sam died. Although there have been many rumours about it.
When I found out about his death, it was the day afterwards, sometime in the late morning. I was helping my boyfriend, Corin, and his parents with some auction things. A friend of Corin’s stopped by and told him about it. A few minutes later I came around a truck and saw that my mom had a look of pure terror on her face and tears on her cheeks. When I asked what was wrong, all she could do was look at me. I turned to Corin who was standing right next to me and he told me about Sam. I stood dumbfounded, unable to move. Tears were streaming down my face and my mom was hugging me. I soon began to sob uncontrollably and abruptly sat down on the hot tarmac. Corin and my mom were still clinging to me. Time passed without recognition but the pain did not. A while later my mom took me to Sam’s house to see if it was really true. It was.
When we got to his house there were three cars in the driveway and none of them looked familiar. His parents and brother were out making arrangements with the funeral home. It was just his Aunt Barbara and grandma there. At first Aunt Barbara thought I was Ashley. After my mom told her who we was she hugged me more fiercely than she had when we walked in the door. She told me that Sam had told her about me. She told me that Sam hardly ever stopped talking about me. And of course all I could do was hug her and cry all the more. We left a few minutes later and went home. Later that night Aunt Barbara called me and asked if I would chose six people to carry the coffin. I told her I would and eventually six turned into eleven. They said it was fine, that we could find something for everyone to do. We didn’t find something for everyone, but no one said anything about it. No one knew what to do anyways. We were all lost.
Callahan Funeral Home held the viewing three days after his death. He was dressed in black slacks and a dark red, button up, long sleeve shirt. But the thing is, he was also in a baby blue coffin with white silk and silver handles. I met a lot of his family that day. They all thanked me for helping with the arrangements and for being such a great friend to Sam. As it turned out, Sam talked about me a lot. I didn’t know about it. It took a while before I was actually ready to ‘participate’ in the viewing. Even when I walked up to coffin, I wasn’t ready. He looked cold. He looked tired. He didn’t look like himself and I nearly got sick. Disgusted with myself for being so cowardly, I turned to his parents and in turn gave them each a hug and a small smile. The same for his brother and his aunt. We were there for about two hours. I wanted to stay and talk to friends. When Heather and Amanda arrived they said that they had things to give to him. I did too, I just didn’t have guts enough to put it in with him when I walked up to him earlier. The three of us asked his parents if it would be alright if we put our items in with him, they said it was more than okay. One by one we put our things in the coffin with him. I didn’t ask Heather and Amanda what they gave him, it seemed wrong to ask. I went last and in with him I put one of his wristbands. I had ‘stolen’ it from him the week before and kept forgetting to return it to him. He always dogged me about it. And now he can’t say that I never gave it back. We left soon after that.
Mom took me home to change into some pants because Corin, myself, and few others were going to a friend’s house to hang out and play pool. I was in the car for the majority of the time that we were there. Corin had to take two people home so I sat in the backseat with Chris. The next day when I was talking to Chris he said that I had made him cry. I asked him how I had done that and he told me that on the way to his house, he could hear me crying. I apologized to him but he told me not to worry about it and then gave me a hug. And of course I couldn’t help but cry all over again.
The day after the viewing was the funeral. The church that it was held at was within a block of school. Corin, my parents, Brittani, her mom and brother, and myself got to the church a little late. Thankfully the service hadn’t started yet. The pall-bearers had to sit in the front two rows on the right hand side. Sam’s family occupied the first few rows opposite to us. Once again Sam was before us in his open coffin. Set there for us to view for the very last time. There were two pastors that spoke to us. One that actually cared about the way we felt. And one who just wanted us to convert to Christianity. Most of the people in the church that day were atheists, so basically, it was a lost cause. At the end of the service, we exited from the back of the church pews to the front; walking up the isle, passing by Sam, down the sides of the pews, and then back out the front door. A large circle for a short walk. After they had sealed the coffin, the pall-bearers helped remove all of the flowers from the church and into a van. Once Sam was wheeled to the doors, six of us took hold of the coffin and carried it to the Hurst. Since there were more than six of us to carry the coffin, I should have expected what happened but it still made me angry. When we were asked to carry the coffin I was not one of the six who got to do it. I stepped forward for it, but for some reason, I was pushed aside. Just as I was pushed aside, I forced my anger to the back of my mind.
When we arrived at the graveyard I made sure that I was one of the people to carry Sam. After we placed him on the platform all the pall-bearers lined up along the side of the tent that they had constructed. Once again we were told to convert to Christianity or be otherwise damned for all eternity. We were also told by the overly rude and unemotional Hurst driver that there would be food and drink back at the church. Not once did he offer condolence for our loss. When it became time for the pall-bearers to go down the line of family members I was fourth in line. But when I came to Sam’s other grandmother, whom I had not met, she asked me if my name was Sam. I nodded and she gave me a hug instead of the handshake that we had been exchanging moments before. I had no clue how she knew my name or what she knew about me.
The service within the cemetery didn’t last long and when very few people remained, we headed back to the church. Instead of leaving with my parents, Brittani, her mom, and little brother, I stayed behind with Corin. We went back inside the church and Corin ate some. Instead of eating I just listened to the conversations around me and visited briefly with Sam’s parents. Corin and a few other people at the church had to act in a school play later that night and needed to get ready, so we left. After an hour of helping assemble costumes the play started and I was able to escape to the sound room with three other friends.
I felt like I was trying to run away from the pain. But the pain was so intense and fresh in my mind that I honestly didn’t care. I’ve always believed that running is a cowards way of dealing with a problem. But at the time, I really didn’t care because it hurt so bad. It felt as if my heart had been wrenched from my body and ripped into pieces. Pieces so small that they could be passed through the eye of a needle. Even now it’s like I can’t find all of the pieces so I can stitch them back together. Perhaps, over time, I’ll find them all. I just have to look a little harder or wait for them to come back to me somehow.
I don’t get too many chances to go visit Sam but any chance that I do get, I try and take it. A couple of the wreathes from the viewing are still out there at his grave, slowly wearing away from time and weather. Late one night his mom called me to tell me about the headstone for him. She said that she had found red granite and even though it cost twice as much as the gray granite, she was going to get it. She was happy that she found something unique for Sam. It turns out that the Fish Camp, which is situated on the St. Mary’s River, was willing to pay all the cemetery costs. Although Sam’s parents didn’t let them pay for it, they’re still going to purchase a red granite bench for Sam’s gravesite. Thankfully it wasn’t until I got off the phone with Sam’s mother that I started to cry. Hearing a mom be happy about being able to find the right tombstone for her son, just cut far to deep.
Those who were close friends of Sam talk about him often and tell stories about him any chance they get. Those who were just friends or acquaintances of his never talk about him at all. Sharing memories of Sam, even if they make you cry, is a much better thing than forgetting who he was by not speaking about him.
Even though I’ve always enjoyed attending school, I’m absolutely petrified of starting the tenth grade later this year. Sam was like my backbone. When I got angry with a teacher or frustrated with not being able to do some type of school work, he always calmed me down or helped me with what I was doing. In our agriculture class Sam always made fun of our teacher with me because he was so chauvinist. Also in that class, Sam always helped me tend to my garden plot because I couldn’t do everything myself due to my knee problems. And after he died, I would tend to his plot instead of my own. Making sure that it was weeded and that any ripe plants were picked and given to his parents.
Even though we disagreed on a few things, we never grew angry at each other. We would always talk about things, ask each other’s opinion and thoughts. Finishing each other’s sentences and knowing each other’s thoughts. We were best friends, true friends. And even though I can’t see him anymore or hear his reply or thoughts, I can still talk to him and we will always remain friends. Knowing him made me feel as if I was a better person. But being his friend made me be a better person, and I will never forget the things he taught me, either in his life or in his death.
There is no substitute for death. It is the inevitable, extreme opposite of life. Extreme opposites just as light and dark. The rose and the thorn. The ying and yang. Even though death is always expected, we are usually surprised when it arrives. Generally death is expected to arrive when the receiver is at an old age or is terminally ill, not when the receiver is an extremely healthy fifteen year old. With every death something is gained. It’s not always apparent at first, it may be years before the thing gained is realized.
It was murder. The way Sam died, it was murder. It was too sudden and unexpected, too terrifying. In a way, every death is a murder. The water is what killed Sam. Old age and illness kill people. Bullets and knives kill people. Fire and lightning and extreme temperatures kill people. And as many people believe, some invisible god controls everything upon the planet of which we call Earth. What gives this god the right or the ability to decide who dies and who lives? Why does the human race need someone to control their world? It’s as if the entire human race is a small child that needs to have it’s decisions made for it otherwise it will falter; we are children and the world is a playpen. Don’t fall out.
No way to know who’s out next. It’s like poker or blackjack- you can’t control the cards or numbers. Either you win the hand or you bust. No other way around it. And now that “God” has played “His” hand, and since it seems that “He” won, there are too many things in my life that I’m royally confused about.
Why can’t I stop thinking of him? Did I care for him too much? Why did it take his death to make me realize certain things? Why have I been speaking less and less yet always want someone to talk to? How come I always want to be alone, yet whenever I am, I always yearn for someone to be there with me? Why aren’t people talking about him any more? Why do so many people have sympathy for Katrina, when she was cheating on him with at least two people? Though he had been cheating on her as well, but only shortly before he was to break up with her. He talked to me about it a couple times; but then no one knew because I was the only person he told according to him. What will be gained from Sam’s death? There must be something…everything happens for a reason…but what reason was this?
Sam’s girlfriend, Katrina, is a major head case. Upon many occasions she slummed around with other guys, and sometimes other girls. Kat often said she loved Sam, but after all the things she did to Sam, how could anyone believe that she did? I had a friend tell me that a few days after Sam’s death, Katrina came up to him, put her arm around his shoulders, and said “here’s my new lover.” My friend told me that he pulled her arm off his shoulders, told her off and then walked away. Among other things, it was often said that Katrina had tried forcing Sam to go to bed with her on countless occasions. This fact coming from Sam himself, and of course knowing Katrina’s poorly disguised behavior, made me believe it to be true.
Only once did I ever see Sam cry. There were at least three factors as to why he was. We were supposed to go to the beach that day, something changed so instead I just went over to his house to hang out. For the first hour or so that I was there, we sat outside on his weight bench and talked. First about school and friends, then family and the sort. The entire time we’re having these conversations, he’s staring off into space, rarely looking at me. And when Sam doesn’t look at you when either of you are speaking, something is severely wrong. Eventually he told me what was bothering him. As I said, there were three things- one was a family problem. The other two involved Katrina and some of his friends. Katrina had been trying to force him to go to bed him, and she had tried this many, many times. And his friends…well, his friends had been pressuring him to drink and to do drugs with them. Eventually the conversation ended with his dad suddenly pulling into the driveway, but not before my advice was in his head and his tears were on my shoulder. That was the only time I ever saw him cry, and I cherished the fact that he trusted me enough to talk to me and to use my shoulder to cry on.
But why did he trust me so much? If I can receive that much trust from one person and somewhat smaller amounts from other friends, then how come I can’t receive hardly any trust from my own ‘special someone’? What does that say about the people I put myself with? What does it say about me? What did it say about Sam?
The green monster, Jealously, comes out sometimes. Two of my friends have told me that Sam has ‘spoken’ back to them when they talk to him. I mean, even though I’m jealous about him not speaking to me, I’m still happy for my friends being able to have his…guidance, I guess you could say. Perhaps the reason why Sam has not answered me yet is because I’m asking the wrong questions. Or perhaps I’m just not ready to hear him again, maybe even hearing him from beyond the grave would bring me back down to an extreme low. Because hearing him would just mean that his voice and company would end once again. Is he actually answering me and I’m just not realizing that it’s him? I don’t know how many times I’ve asked him why he doesn’t speak to me. And now my friend tells me that he’s going to ask Sam to talk to me, even though he thinks it’s probably a lost cause. Will I ever get to hear from Sam again? Or is it something that I just can’t handle?
Is there a life after death? Do the dead keep on living? Many cultures, both from present and past, believe that is possible for the dead to be reincarnated or to ‘live’ in the netherworld. The Egyptians are an excellent example. For them, life everlasting begins with a journey from the tomb through the underworld. Ka, or life force, leaves the deceased’s body first. Followed by ba, the soul, after burial. Horus, a falcon-headed god, leads the ba into the hall of judgment. Then the jackal-headed god, Anubis weighs the deceased’s heart, which was believe to be the site of the conscience. The heart is weighed against the feather of maat, or things as they should be. If the heart is too heavy or too light, a monster that is part lion, part crocodile, and part hippopotamus devours it. If the heart is destroyed the deceased is doomed to a perpetual coma. But if the heart and maat are of equal weight, then the ka and ba join back together in the netherworld to enjoy all the pleasures of life there were described or depicted upon the deceased’s tomb. Is this still possible? Was it ever? And if it is, what makes your heart heavier or lighter than maat?
For some reason all I can think of now are questions. Most of them pointless yet thought provoking. Some just downright pointless. Others more in-depth. Can a schizophrenic be charged for attempted murder if he tried to kill his other self in a way other than slitting his or her wrists? Why do people die so young? Is there such thing as a coincidence? Is there such thing as an “accidental death” or does some god control everything and cause everything to happen for reason or another? If a male schizophrenic’s other self was a woman, and he masturbated, could he be charged with rape, assault, or spousal abuse? See, absolutely ridiculous questions. Yet they still occupy my mind…why?
“Gone to my happy place. Be back soon.” It’s a phrase that’s constantly used, by people, on t-shirts, even on television. I’m sure most people have some type of ‘happy place.’ Though, I cannot think of one for myself. Occasionally the world I visit within my own mind is cheerful, or somewhere close to it. But mostly it is just a dark, cloudy, and dangerous place to be. An empty palace, devoid of colour, laughter, and sound. It’s like being able to stand within a rainbow, but not having the ability to see; going into the rainforest, but not being to hear such beautiful and foreign sounds. One may ask what I do to make that world less torturous, my answer would be “nothing.” Because there is nothing that I can do to consciously change the way the world is. My subconscious, my imagination, my emotions- they create that place. Personally, I have no control over it, only the actions the I make while I’m within it’s company. Once again, I do not know why this is so.
I do not like not knowing. And now I’m terribly confused, and absolutely terrified. Terror because I now know that is it not possible to know. Substance, meaning, and reason seem to have been abandoned. As if they never existed, the world is without them.
And now as the rain dances down from the sky, it seems as if the weather matches my mood. As I’m sure that it also matches the moods of some of my friends. It rains nearly everyday now, and because of this I think of Sam nearly everyday. Sam loved the rain. When we were at school during a storm he would take the long way to class just so he could walk through the tears of the sky. Three major things remind me of him; two types of soda, a gothic store named Hot Topic, and the rain. Mountain Dew reminds me of him because he absolutely loved it, and Coke-Cola because we both absolutely hated it; he dubbed it “Canned Evil.” Sam was a freak and even though I only went to Hot Topic with him once it was an unforgettable experience. He had a few pairs of black parachute pants that I would always have to repair for him.
Night after night nightmares and dreams wrack my body. Teasing me with images of Sam. Haunting me; forcing me to think about his death and then to listen to the laughter when I start to cry about it. It’s always something new. Every dream is different. They wake me at odd hours of the night and early morning. Even now it is four a.m. and I have just woken from this torment, my mouth dry and heart pounding. Will these cryptic messages ever stop to explain themselves? I’m afraid to go back to sleep. Terrified that the dreams will return to torture me some more. More often than not, I sit up late at night, pushing away the need to sleep so I can avoiding these hellish nightmares. But, unlike my father I lack military training and don’t have the ability to stay up for several nights in a row. So I must sleep, and desperately pray that my mind is too tired to make up these dreams.
Why can’t I just dream about normal fifteen-year-old girl things? Like being in a group of people and getting my period while wearing white pants. Or making a fool or myself in front of someone I have crush on…? Why do my thoughts have to drag me in so deep? So deep into a realm of pain and fear and darkness. A world made of broken glass that cuts you at the slightest touch; wrenching your skin off of your body, filleting you like you’re a slab of meat. A realm that finds your weakness and latches onto it like a suckling child to it’s mother’s breast. A realm that can find every possible way to reduce your soul to ashes. This is the world I visit. If there is a way out of it, I have not found it yet. And I’m very close to giving up my search for it.
It’s now been three months since Sam died. He is always in my thoughts but it does not hurt as much. Sure, there will always be a part of my heart missing, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t know where it is. Although believing in a god is difficult for me to do, I guess you could say that I pray. Or at least the equivalent of it. Perhaps hope is a better word for it. Because everyday I hope that Sam knew how much everyone cared for him. I hope the if there is an afterlife, Sam is happy within it. I hope that he realizes that he had my heart all along.

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