[ WP ] Your best friend has died , but they 're still responding to your text messages .

I still could n't believe she'd actually done it. 
 
 Carla was my confidante, my closest friend. My whole world, actually. 
 
 I've always disliked the term'friend zoned', but that's what it felt like had happened to me. We could have been so good together, but she'd never give it a chance. Always claiming she did n't want to ruin our friendship... but I digress. 
 
 I ca n't even imagine what could have driven her to this. In fact, had I not seen her in that coffin, I would n't have even believed that she was gone. What must have been going through her head, when she put that blade to her wrist? When she drew blood? When she began to lose consciousness? 
 
 I pick up my phone, flicking aimlessly through the menus. Everything that seemed so important just days ago no longer holds my interest. I find the last conversation between me and Carla. Some mundane chat about weekend plans. I send her a message.'I miss you already.' Then I lay down, hoping I'll pass out and that it'll bring me the oblivion I'm craving. 
 
 My phone makes a happy, chirping sound, at odds with my dark mood. It's no longer bright and sunny outside. I must have been out for some time. 
 
 CARLA: HE KNOWS 
 
 My blood runs cold; I'd always thought that was just a phrase they used in movies and books, and yet here we are. I look over my shoulder. Nothing. Of course. 
 
 Someone must have her phone. Someone must be playing a prank. I try to call her, but get her voicemail. How I wished she'd taken the time to record a personal message, so I could hear her voice one more time. 
 
 I decide it must be someone playing a horrible prank. I drift off back into fitful sleep. 
 
 The next morning, Carla is on my mind. I dreamed about her. She was in a good place. But she seemed so angry. I began to wonder if perhaps there was something about her death that we'd missed. I still could n't ever imagine her taking her own life. Again, my phone lets out that awful high pitched noise. I look at it. 
 
 CARLA: THE END 
 
 This time, I drop the phone as if it's about to bite me. Despite the warmth outside, I feel cold. The house is deadly silent. It seems everyone has gone out for the day already. I rub my arms to warm myself up, feeling the goosebumps on my skin. 
 
 The phone lays where I dropped it, face up, and the screen lights up with another notification. She's calling me. Her contact photo of the two of us teases me. I pick it up, tap the button to answer. I can hear the noise before I even put the phone to my ear; white noise. Static. 
 
'Hello?' I intend to say it loud and clear, but my voice cracks as the words leave my throat. There's a shrieking, moaning noise that gets louder as it goes on, finally ending in a high pitched screech. 
 
 The call cuts out, and now I do n't know what to do. I'm still cold. The house is still silent. I look out the window, and it looks the same as ever. How can that be the case? How can people just be getting on with their lives, like nothing has happened? 
 
 I get dressed, jeans and a t shirt. The cap Carla bought me for my last birthday. I walk out to my car, unclear as to where I'm going. I just need to get out of here. To clear my head, get some air. My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I'm scared to look. But I know I have to. 
 
 CARLA: THE END IS COMING. 
 
'FUCK!' I shout, tears filling my eyes, making the road difficult to see. I hear the angry sound of a horn, and manage to yank the steering wheel just in time to avoid a collision. I wipe my face, and then I realise I'm heading in the direction of her home. 
 
 It's like a ghost town in the complex where she lives... Lived now, I suppose. I know where she keeps the spare key. Of course I do. But it is n't there. It is n't in the usual spot. I jam my hands into my pockets, looking around for inspiration, and there's something metallic. The key. What else would it be? I have a feeling of dread, almost like I know what's coming. And yet, I ca n't remember anything. 
 
 I let myself into her home. It's cold. Her room is predictably empty, and I peruse it carefully. Picking up an unwashed t shirt, just to smell her. Flicking through the old paperback on the bedside cabinet. Touching the framed photo on the side of the two of us. My eyes come to rest on a picture of her, alone this time. She's half hiding behind her beautiful blonde hair, looking happy. I took that photo. It's almost too much to bear, and I walk through to the living room. 
 
 It's been cleaned up since the incident, but I'm almost sure I can still see the spot where she bled out. Is that my imagination, or is the hard wood floor slightly stained with blood? 
 
 Suddenly, I'm hit with a vision. I see Carla, sitting on the floor, a makeshift picnic. A bottle of wine on the floor. Candles. She turns, and smiles. Then she sees me, and the smile fades. It is n't a vision. It's a memory. A memory I tried so hard to repress. I'm not who she's expecting. But I made him leave. I convinced him she did n't love him, so that I could be here instead. I see her backing away from me, scooting backwards across the floor as she sees the blade in my hand. The look on her face. Ha! I'm such a cliche, playing the old'if I ca n't have you, no one will' card. I recognise the absurdity, yet somehow it feels apt. I catch her, of course. I pull her close, my arm around her neck, and she smells of strawberries. How I repressed this memory, I'll never understand. I feel so powerful. She's begging me to let go. Telling me she loves me. I laugh, a single derisive snort. 
 
 I pull her wrist away from her body, and she's shaking with the effort of trying to keep it away from me. Finally, I win. I make the incision, watching the blood drip from her wrist onto the floor. I do n't know how to feel. Here is the woman I love, bleeding to death, by my own hand. 
 
 I come around from the memory, and I know what has to be done. It seems only fair. I took her life, now I have to take mine also. I go to the kitchen, and find a knife. The one I used on her is no longer here, of course. That's a shame. I feel like it would be poetic justice to use the same one. Any one will do, though. I place the tip against my wrist, watching the point indent my skin, turning that spot white. And then I cut. It's deep, and it does n't take me long to feel faint. I lie in what I think is the same spot that she lay in. I invoke her name once before everything turns black.
