"He killed her."
When time stands still,
You can't hear.
Because the words you just heard are too big to let any other sound in.
You can't see.
Because light is suddenly too bright, and causes everything to fragment and pixilate.
You can't speak.
Because when your heart shatters, all the pieces land in your throat.
When time moves again,
You find yourself sitting in a chair in the middle of a hallway, your body folded in half, arms wrapped around the back of your knees, rocking back and forth. And a refrain of "in, out" plays in your head as your body reminds itself to breathe.
You think of the last conversation, of what she'd shared with you only two days before, how she'd called and insisted that you get dressed and come out, how she'd made everyone dance, how tightly she'd hugged you.
The story plays in your head and you tremble at the thought of how scared she had to have been. And how brave.
You walk, in a desparate attempt to keep reality from catching you. You walk as you talk to friends, each of you repeating a story over and over again. A group of words that don't belong together. A story that will never make sense.
Five years later,
The feelings live just beneath the surface.
You don't take time or people for granted.
You can still feel the cling of arms that knew they were hugging you for the last time.
You can still hear her voice and how she used to fuss at all of you for not keeping up with each other. And it makes you grin.
You remember how you sat in a courtroom staring at the back of his head without blinking, the ringing in your ears as you listened to the guilty verdict being read, and the feeling of despair as you turned your head towards the courtroom door and stared until your heart realized she wasn't going to walk in.
You have learned that time won't heal the hole in your heart.
Her home and cell numbers are still in your phone. You can never again call them, nor is deleting them an option.
You still wish you had turned around that night and told her you loved her.
You remember that day five years ago when you answered your phone and heard your Soror, her best friend, say,
"He killed her."
It was a Tuesday.
