Well it is done now, there is little else I can do. The night's secrets rush past me and the moon disappears slowly. The tears my friends have cried in the past drag past my throat and tears stream down my cheeks until my vision is blurred. The look on my best friends face as she walked away from me forever is seared into my memory. My heart weighs a thousand pounds in my chest and my throat is raw from the tears I have and still am crying. My defences have caved in and I am numb. Somehow I manage to lift my hand in front of my face and see, to my disgust, a slash across the back of it. Created by a piece of broken glass, taken up by a cold hand and dragged across fragile flesh. From the other hand I let the glass fall. Over and over I play conversations through my head. I see the sad faces of failure and disappointment in my parent's eyes over and over, a thousand times more. I'm sorry everyone, I just cant tough it out anymore. I just needed people there, but there is no one, I am left with my failure and myself. You were all right. I'm sorry. I whisper it to the night...

... the wind echoes across the cliff face, broken only by a loud splash.


Do you hear them at night? Not quite ghosts, maybe you could call them that. Echoes, that's right, probably a better word for it. Ghosts and echoes. I remember lying in bed night after night, day after day, after hour after hour after hour, listening to them. Sometimes I can still hear her voice. A year before it happened, happy, carefree. So full of life, unaware of the slide before her. She slipped quietly. She looked calm and controlled, but that was a shell, an illusion. Inside her mind was a storm, insults, guilt, and blame, all for herself. Three years later and I still drown in the memory, the ghost, the echo. I could have helped, should have helped, but she would not allow it. She allowed people close, only to the illusion. Not a night goes by I don't rethink it all. The note, the panicked drive to the beach, all the while knowing it was too late, too late to help, too late to stop. The note. The words seared into my memory from the first time I read them. Not so much a note as a letter, an explanation. Ariax had seen it coming. That voice, so full of life, became an empty hollow. I should have seen it. Her body, which was found, battered by the sea, hit against the rocks, was cremated, her ashes spread over the cliff where she died. For three months after I was numb. Then it sunk in, insomnia sunk in, tossing and turning and throwing it all through my head. Not a night goes by.