Epistolary fiction, by Lily Page
Dear Lydia,Â
I miss you, it feels stupid even writing that down, like what iâm feeling can be written the same way a postcard begins, the way an email to someone off sick begins. Itâs like iâm crushing weeks of crying and ranting and panic attacks, disassociating and throwing up and more crying, into three little words, the same way I used to stuff weeks worth of clothes into my tiny suitcase, except this time I donât have you to sit on top so I can fit the zip around, instead itâs just all forcing itâs way out. I donât just miss you, I feel like iâm missing you, the same way someone can be missing an eye or an arm. Something has been ripped out and itâs left me raw and bleeding like an lamb chop.Â
It didnât feel real for so long, everything felt like it was underwater, I felt totally numb, kept turning around to look for you until i realised you werenât ever going to be there and it was like that empty space youâd left behind was suddenly so invasive, begging for attention in the corner of every glance and iâd just end up staring at it in school with people throwing around words like ânervousâ and âbreakdownâ. School is surreal, everyone pretending at how well they knew you, even Fiona, and iâm pretty sure she was the one who told everyone you gave your cousin herpes.Â
We had a day off after your accident and itâs all anyone been talking about since. Youâve become some kind of romantic figurehead to angsty teens everywhere, whoâve suddenly realised that when they say they want to die, they might not be being totally sarcastic. Youâre the girl who died, the âtragicâ accident. They say that a lot in the news at the moment, how tragic it all is, like itâs a play or something, a performance and everyone is either watching all the drama unfold like vultures or trying desperately to become a part of it. You should see all the year eights, they leave through the carpark now because thatâs where the TV vanâs stationed and their 'inside knowledgeâ is getting more and more out of hand, things about axe murderers, about you 'getting your comeuppanceâ (whatever that means), I wanted to hit them, they sound so, I donât know, giddy. I guess the truth isnât exciting enough, this stupid, pointless, dumb, painful waste of life has to be spun somehow, channel five are currently using you as an example to push the 'dangers of teen drinkingâ angle and i wish you were here to defend yourself.
I just want you to come back and hug me and tell me itâs all going to be okay but i have to tell myself youâre in a better place now, pretend that that wasnât with me to help me sleep. I have to tell myself you werenât meant for Earth, for this tiny insignificant corner of suburbia; you were meant for something astronomical, one of those people who seem less human, more closely related to the stars than everyone else. Growing up and old just wasnât for you and this way youâll always be preserved how you were supposed to be, like something from the Big Bang, and you went out of life the way you lived it, like an explosion. But then, iâll just remember how much better the world was just because you were in it.
Itâs the day of your funeral today, a 'smallâ, 'quietâ, 'modestâ affair,only a few close friends and family. No reporters or camera crews or 'fakeâ mourners. Youâd hate it. Your mum just thought it would be inappropriate to do it your way; the party playlist, the huge guest list, the fancy dress code⊠But donât be annoyed with her, sheâs just trying to do whatâs best. I dressed in my old Elmo costume, even if it is two sizes to small, it used to make you laugh so much but itâs definitely not a hit with the funeral procession. I did manage to persuade your mum to play 'Reachâ by S Club 7 because itâs your favourite and I donât know why but I think this is the closest thing to happy Iâve felt since you died, I feel like you might actually be watching me and laughing at this stupid costume and dancing to your favourite song.Â
So, iâm not going to put this letter in the coffin with the rest, iâm sending it up to you, thatâs just your body down there, you donât belong in the ground, after this funeral Iâm going to the shopping centre, buying one of those huge, expensive balloons from that man that stands by Matalan, the ones with helium in and tie this letter to it, I figure itâll get to Heaven somehow. I know you never believed in God but I think Heâll have to let you in anyway, you were the closest thing to a miracle I ever encountered and I bet you look great in a pair of wings.
You better recognise me when i come up to join you, no matter how old and wrinkly and pruney I am, I know Iâll always be able to spot you from a mile away with my eyes half shut. Keep practising our handshake, Iâll see you soon.
Frances











