by Ryla Roberts
I keep playing it over and over in my head. Since that night, all I’ve done is either question myself or be questioned by others. I can’t remember what it feels like to spend a day without thinking about the police. I can’t even remember what it was like to be able to think clearly or trust my own mind. They keep asking me to go over what happened, as if increasing the number of times I tell the story will give them the answers they want. Isn’t that Einstein’s definition of insanity? Doing the same thing again and again, expecting a different result? They should be the ones going insane, not me.
Sometimes, it all comes clearly. I know what I saw, I know it. He didn’t stumble and fall, there was no gust of wind. He jumped. Took one great step towards the edge of the cliff and before I even knew what he was doing, he was gone. I know I couldn’t speak after it happened, but that doesn’t mean I was hiding something. It wasn’t like I led him up there myself, we were all there. I don’t know whose idea it was to celebrate the end of exams by going up the cliff and drinking ten bottles of Lambrini, but it wasn’t mine. I only had one thing I wanted to do that night and now I’ll never get a chance. Not that it matters now anyway