Already Dead
I met Sarah some time ago on a walk in a wild place, where dogs were still allowed to run off-lead. Perhaps this was why she went there so often. I had seen her there for over a year by the time we began to talk.
She was a slender woman with a beauty that could only be seen by those looking deeper than themselves. High cheekbones, now too pointed thin. Long wavy sun-striped hair, usually in a careless bun, or springing wildly in the wind on the days that she cared too little. Eyes that generally avoided contact, but occasionally smiled with creases that revealed a more carefree time.
She seemed slightly lost. And sad.
Re-edited for Hive because this is now my small corner of the universe.
I suppose we got to talking because we became familiar with each other’s presence, at our same time of the day when the walk was more solitary. A middle-aged woman. An elderly man. Walking alone, with our dogs.
Our friendship began with a nodded recognition after a few passing bys, that became a smile and a hello, that accidentally drifted into a conversation about a new addition to my family. I found myself beside Sarah, early one evening, as we meandered back to the parking area. Our dogs were with us, as always. Hers plodding along happily beside her, covered with wet and mud. Mine zigzagging back and forth, just out of reach of the lead that I held, hopefully, in my hand.
Scout was a young dog. Playful, curious and charmingly disobedient. A black, cross collie something that my wife and I had rescued from the local pound. Probably a bit adventurous an animal for an old man with a walking stick.
As we ambled along together, me calling Scout and him studiously ignoring me, Sarah mentioned that she had trained her dog to return by carrying liver treats in her pocket. She shared this gently, as though she thought that I may take it the wrong way. She was also smiling slightly as she spoke and I could see her enjoyment of my pup’s spiritedness.
I did take it the wrong way. Nobody likes to be reminded of their age past a certain age. But, I believe she liked Scout enough to begin to talk to me after that day. And after a bit more time, Sarah shared her story with me as well.
People often share intimate details with me when they hear of my work as a psychologist. It goes with the territory and, I presume, the same holds for many professions. I imagine financial investors have the worst of it, with doctors and veterinarians not far behind. It didn’t surprise me at all when she asked if I would allow her to share more of her history. I'd watched her trying to find herself, or something as elusive, on that walk for some time. I was curious to find out more.
That day was the first and only day that we sat. Side by side, on a weathered, wooden bench. Only partly shaded. She seemed uncertain of how to begin. She hesitated for a moment and reached down beside her, to pick a flower while she gathered her thoughts.
Sarah looked at the flower in her hand. A Marigold as golden as the sunshine itself. She said thoughtfully, “I wanted Marigolds as my wedding flower. Mother asked me to choose a flower and I imagined they would add some colour. It was cold that time of year. I never wanted a formal wedding. I thought that Marigolds would be playful and fun.”
She picked off a petal as she chuckled, “I didn’t realise that Marigolds were seasonal. Mother ended up flying them in especially for the day. Isn’t that funny? I thought that I was keeping things simple, but they must have cost more than roses or lilies after all that.” She rolled up the sleeve of the hand holding the flower, to hide the holes in her now worn clothing. An absent-minded gesture. Then she picked off another petal.
For two hours Sarah spoke and I listened in silence, stopping her only for occasional clarity. As she talked, she continued to pick a petal off the golden flower in her hands every so often. This seemed to calm her. At times, a few silent tears rolled down her cheeks but she brushed them away incidentally and went on quietly, until she was done.
We both looked down at the now almost bare stem in her hand. One small petal remained. She glanced sideways up at me and smiled wryly. “He loves me not.” she said, as she picked it off, throwing the stem to the ground beside her. We sat silently, surrounded by the scattered petals as we watched the sun set, now in intimately comfortable silence. So many petals. So many precious days lost.
I suggested she write her story down for others to possibly learn from. She answered she didn’t want to revisit those years deeply enough to put them down on paper. “My story is not uncommon. If you're courageous enough to listen, you’ll hear it repeated in a thousand different voices.” she said.
There was a long silence as we considered the implications of this fact and the many, all too similar, untold stories happening at that very moment as we sat together. “I need to find a peaceful place to start over,” she said. “or I am going to die.” My silence was confirmation that this was, probably, true. “Thank you for believing me,” she ended, at my unspoken agreement.
After this, Sarah never spoke of the events she'd shared with me again. And, one day, she just stopped coming to that place.
We had not felt the need to do such ordinary things as exchange phone numbers. Our friendship was confined to those times we'd spontaneously met and walked together for a while. Our lives were too different in every other respect for things to ever have been more. And this is also, perhaps, why she chose me.
I was distant enough from her life for me to stay safe.
I continued to check her social media each week. She'd stopped using it before we'd met, but each Friday afternoon I studiously checked her profile. There was no activity at all for some months.
Until, one day, it happened.
A post appeared on her wall. A last post from Sarah. Set on auto pilot. A scheduled post. She'd told me her plan as she ended her story. “I don’t really believe that I can make this right anymore,” She'd calmly stated “but I will not let them bury this with me.”
She'd set up this post some months before we'd spoken, along with archives of her email accounts, some video footage and some voice recordings of her case. Now backed up and stored in anonymous cloud storage. All of it. Eleven years of it. The last two years documenting her desperate attempts to get help from the court. Trying to survive in a system that was neither equipped for, nor much interested in, helping people like her. Trying to reveal the truth at last. Trying to live for her son.
This last post meant that she was no longer able to update the scheduled time to stop it from going live.
If You are Reading this then I'm Already Dead.
It’s too late now. As it has been for so many who sought help before me.
Below this was a record of the events that had unfolded. Listed in chronological order.
It was shocking to see it in black and white. The number of official departments that she'd approached over the years. I sat and looked at the post for a while in sombre silence.
The post meant that it was too late.
The post meant that it was time.
I pulled open the drawer of my desk and took out the package that she'd left with me. I put on my coat and drove to an area that I had no regular association with. I took out the tablet, turned it on and tapped on the app that ran the VPN she had installed, routed and rerouted.
I opened a private tab for browsing and logged into an anonymous email account. I opened up the drafts folder and I clicked on the only email in it and hit “send.” I removed the sim card and reset the tablet to factory settings.
I did this three times before I destroyed the tablet and left parts of it in several bins as I made my way home. I did all of this without hesitation or doubt, knowing that it was the right thing to do. As she had asked of me.
There was no chance that this was going to disappear. Sarah had created multiple back ups. I had access to another set but there are others that were never shared with me. She'd set up alternative arrangements in the event that mine were somehow deleted. The online trail cleaned and disposed of. She was meticulous about her admin. Organized. It had been well thought out. The whole thing cleanly and rationally planned some months in advance to us even talking.
A “crazy” person could not have pulled that off. But I never suspected for a minute that she was anything but completely sane.
As she stated clearly, and more than once, her story is not uncommon at all.
I think the meme that fits best is: "You're too late, Spiderman"?.
Done and dusted way back in 2021. Nothing to see here.
On we go... 🐾 ❤️
Hardened Dreamer
Mother
Peaceful Warrior
Determined Dancer
and Stargazer
still...
Beyond fear is freedom
And there is nothing to be afraid of.
To Life, with Love... and always for Truth!
Nicky Dee
