October 28, 2003 will be the four year anniversary of the suicide of Alison. When we were together, the world seemed perfect, and any imperfections have seemed to just go away with the tides, or the waning or the waxing of the moon. I do not write this to snibble like a bitch, and pathetically cry “poor me, poor me”. Instead, what I seek to do here is to help show you that you need to cherish those you love and those who love you. Let me go back about four years. Alison and I are sitting across from each other in Mrs. Trask’s Honors English class….
I sit here in this dusty and moldy old classroom of Wethersfield High School, of Wethersfield, CT, and across from me to my right is Alison. We have only known each other for maybe three weeks or so. But, in that time I have grown so in love with her. I spend every second of my waking day thinking and imagining and fantasizing about her.
Her strawberry blonde hair, her perfectly oval eyes and high cheek bones, and even her fire-red lips-thin, but never showing weekness. Alison’s physique was of those perfect shapes of the well rounded and curved hips giving her that oh-so-wanted hourglass shape, with most of the sand at the top. I would find myself standing in awe when she walks away from me after talking; staring at the light that is able to pass through between her thieghs.
Beauty perfected.
I love you, Alison.
When I held her, I got all of these mixed emotions; love, hate, passion, anger and so many others I wish I could describe. All of this is because her father is a sociopath. Which means that her treats women well by beating them to an inch of thier life, make them feel that the beatings were thier fault, shower them with gifts, and the viciously cruel cycle begins again.
When I am able to hold her, I sometimes get a glimpse of the bruises on her back. A rusty yellow orange circle enclosing a light black and blue patch. I see it and I want to kill her father. The hate fills me, and I always come an inch of exploding before Alison calms me down. I know for sure that her father beats her because of me. I’m a decent enough of a guy, and he had different thoughts of what being fair and decent is. His frustrations appear on his daughter’s back like battle-scars.
Torture.
This one day, Alison asked me if she could spend some time wit me at my house. I would never refuse such a sad face; a face of such torment and agony and pain. Of course, beautiful, I’ll be waiting for you, I told her. She ended up coming an hour after school was over, at about 3:30. I found her, and I knew something was just so wrong, for when she held me, I could feel her body shake and I knew from her eyes she was so on the edge. There we were, standing in the middle of my room, gripping each other so tightly, we could feel each others’ heart beats. I began to shed tears for her, as she did for me.
My love for her is like no other like it. My love for her can be seen in the sunrise and the sunset, in the tides that crash upon the shore and the white foam that does its little dance upon the sand and quickly disappears again, like ghosts. I always told her that once we graduate, I was taking her with me, on a road trip, and we were getting married. We’d even share ideas on how to torture and murder her father.
But, for right now, Alison is in my arms shaking like a leaf. I tell her that it’s alright, that I’m with her now, but it doesn’t help at all. We sat on my bed with our fore-heads pressed together. I couldn’t have hepled but to feel this increbible pull on my soul. Like she needed some of my warmth, my life force to survive until tomorrow. I would always abide by her wishes and her needs and her wants, for my life without her is my death.
We talked for hours and hours on end. Just talk and talk and talk. I could feel her relaxing already, a very good sign. We didn’t bother to eat any of the supper that my mom made us, I think that she would feel insecure if she left this room.
But, we remained in each others’ arms for the whole day. When night fell, something strange hapenned. I lit all my candles, and upon my bed I lay with Alison on top of my stomache facing me. We never exchanged any words after the candles were lit. We just lay there facing each other, looking into each others’ eyes, playing with each others’ hair, and it was as if our eyes could communicate our needs without a single word spoken.
We bagan to kiss.
I love you.
We were touching in private areas.
I need you.
She undressed me, and I undressed her.
I want you.
We made love.
I love you.
At first she straddled me, then I sat up cross legged Indian style. She crossed her legs behind my back, and in that position we rocked and rocked, forwards and backwards, side to side. For hours at a time, our lips remained locked together, her breasts were seemingly anchored to my chest, and her eyes and my own, never broke contact. And, at the moment of her climax, so did I.
I leaned back down and let my head rest upon the pillow, Alison is still on top of me. In our heavey breathing, we knew we found our life loves, we are our soulmates, meant to be for all eternity.
A little after midnight, we dressed ourselves again, and she snuck out, and back to her house. Even though that was the most beautiful night of my life, I felt something terrible was wrong, and I didn’t sleep at all that night.
The next day was like the rest, wake up and school. Except, there was no Alison. I looked everywhere in a tempered panic. Where is my Alison!
After school, I went straight to the room where we made love in, the room where we both died and both reborn. I just sat there with such a solid weight on my soul, the only way I could sit was to prop my face up with my hands and my elbows pressed against my legs.
The phone rings.
Panic.
Shear terror.
It was Alison’s mother, oh, hello, how are you? Where is Alison? I said her name, and she broke into tears.
This is not happening. Alison died at the hospital at about 4 this morning. She put a very deep gash into her wrist, probably after her father ‘talked’ to her.
No.
I hung the phone up, and I fell to my knees, I couldn’t help but to just stare at the floor in shock.
I am dead.
Later on that week, her parents had an open casket funeral for her. I was the first to arrive, and the last to leave. I guess her mother told the autorities about how Alison’s father likes to hit women. ‘Till this day I swore I would kill her father as I stood over her tombstone…and I will.