The apartment block across the way is ten levels high. Lane lives on the third floor. She is sitting at her computer. Last week a girl from University died. She was riding her bike at the time. She had a yellow bag full of old appliances that she was going to dispose of at the local tip when a truck ran over her. The girl is on Lane's chat-list. Her name is Emily and she is offline. Lane and Emily were working on an assignment together - 'Angola: anatomy of an oil state.' They had made little progress on the paper. Lane liked Emily.

When the driver apologised to Emily's parents the papers took photographs of him entering their house. His picture was on the front of the local paper. People can't seem to remember his name but they remember his face and the yellow bag in his dirty hand. They call him 'The Truck Driver'.

Lane has been excused from the assignment. She got an email from her lecturer. He said, '...if you like you can complete the paper next semester.' She feels mildly relieved by this. And so, the night is quiet. Lane slides her hand onto the mouse and stares at Emily's name.

Things were strewn across a normally clean apartment; it seemed as though someone had broken in. It wasn't like that, though. A vase lay smashed in the hall, pieces scattered across the carpet. Magazines had been sent flying across the the lounge from a hand that had dashed them aside. The light of the computer was the only soft glow that illuminated the chaos.

The figure hunched at the desk shuddered, shoulders shaking and hands pushed into thick hair, holding a head that was too full of emotion. A smiling blond girl wearing a black dress and a thick beaded necklace stared out of the screen, her arm around another. Emily. Pretty laughing happy graceful Emily. Emily who would always come running in times of trouble, Emily who could be depended on, Emily.

Emily who shared all those dark thoughts, Emily who said the absolute truth, Emily who knew what to say and apologized when she didn't. Emily who gave the best hugs and knew all the good coffee shops in town. Emily who was the best friend possible, Emily who was everything.

The hands ran over the person's hair angrily, tearing at it as they pulled their hands away in frustration. Fingers hovered over the keyboard, tears making the image of the girl wavy and watery. Emily who was a lie. Emily who could not be depended on. Emily who was no longer there. Emily. Emily. Emily.

Delete.

25

Emily.
Dearest Emily
why so long without words?
why is your only answer silence?

Emily.
Dearest Emily,
I am sure I could explain why
there was dress on the floor, in the foyer, when you walked in,
last week

Emily.
when I saw you dancing at the club
last night, by yourself, with your eyes closed
I was struck by how alone you are

Emily. Emily. Emily.

Delete