The Writers' Circle

Green. There was lots of green. An emerald, an olive, and just a hint of viridescence. And some yellow and blue, dappling a pattern in the green. But there was green.  There was also laughter, punctuating the green - defining it. There were five voices laughing, five wide smiles, ten gleaming eyes. Behind the eyes was happiness. Happiness takes many forms; it is the squeezed hand from a loved one, it is the crinkle in the corner of a smiling child's eyes, it is winning the race and scoring the goal. This happiness is the happiness I see most: a teasing glint of light in the very centre of the eye, a hook-handed grin tweaking at the corners of the mouth. This is the happiness I most like to see. I saw it five times that day. Later I saw sadness, but for now, we have happiness. 
Let me tell you some facts that you may wish to hear. You will fall in love. You will be happy. You will be sad. You will laugh, and you will cry, and you will scream with rage. And you will die. I will see all of this. Take pleasure in the fact that you will never be alone; it is a comforting thought. 
Another thought to think over: there is nothing quite so satisfying as a cup of tea in the morning. This is how it starts. This is where our story begins; with the pouring of a glorious, steaming, milky cup of tea. 

08:45. Milk. Sugar. Fork. She wasn't awake properly yet. An elastic strand of hair flopped insolently into her eyes, and she thrust it back with an impatient hand. As she groped in the cupboard for a mug, sleep pulled down the lids of her eyes, tugged at the corner of her mouth. I watched with a smile as she trudged back to the kettle and grimaced. Plodding across the kitchen in haggard bed socks, she slung the fork back into the drawer and replaced it with a spoon. It is things like these, the small, sparkling human mistakes and blunders, so endearing in their nature, that make me glad that I watch. 
The slow, slinking sensation of a yawn crept up her throat, constricting, smothering. Saturday 4th June. The first free weekend in a very long time. Definitely the first hot weekend in a very long time. And also the last. Tiredness languished on the air in fat, heavy blobs. A thick haze descended like a curtain behind her eyes, and for a second, she lost herself in the dream she'd just woken from. A plane. An old woman. An altercation surrounding a slab of cheese. 
A harsh stab brought her viciously back to the present. She stood, dazed, for a second. It took another three rings before she answered. 
"Hmm?"
"Lyla!" Jubilance burst out of the receiver, striking her across the face. She frowned. Her mind was sluggish. Groggy. Like when you've eaten too much Christmas dinner. "Get your arse down the Jammy. Now!"
" Jake?"
A silver smile forced its way out of the phone as he spoke. "Sleepy head, look outside." 
She turned slowly, still frowning. Yellow light rolled in through the window like apples, scattering on the floor. A poster paint sky. "Perfect day, Lyla," chimed the smile. 
	A thin sigh fell out of her mouth. Smooth. Velvet. "Meet me in two hours." 
He laughed like the sunshine. 

Imagine, if you will, the word 'loneliness'. It is a tiny heap of a thing, big eyes, frowning mouth. Tired. The thinnest of blues, icy and empty as a frozen lake. It is different; a crumpled shadow on the wall. It folds into the corner, the only place that would have it, creased around the edges. It watches as you take your children to school, meet your friends, play football on the street. And as it watches, something loud and impatient claws at its stomach, twists its insides, teases tears out of its eyes. This something is a feeling. This feeling has a name: yearning. 
Imagine loneliness and you will find me. I am the crumpled shadow, creased at the edges, folded into the corner. I am the child, crying into a night emptier than death. I am that once sock that is always left out on the washing line. No one sees the lonely ones. No one sees me. To put it simply, I am a watcher. I see the things that others don't, because I take the time to look. I see the tender delight in the groom's smile, I see the sparkle in the eyes of the robin, I see the rise and fall of your snore as you sleep. But I also see other things; things no one wants to see. I see the life leaving you like the snuff of a flame, I see the laughter in the murderer's eyes, I see the terror in a child as he has a nightmare. And I cannot help.  As a watcher, I must only watch. As a watcher, I cannot speak to you. I cannot warn you to look left and right. I cannot whisper to you that you are not alone as you die. I cannot tell your mother that you felt no pain. 
You may be asking yourself why I see this, why I would want to? I understand -  I'd ask myself the same thing if it came to it. It is not a question of 'want', however. What I want has nothing to do with it. Every day I want to help, want to laugh with the group, want to hold people in my arms. But that's not what I'm here for. No, it's a question of 'obligation'. What a word; so strong, binding, yet gentle at the same time. Pitying. My obligation is to watch. It is my responsibility - incidentally, another excellent word  - to watch the wars, the marriages, the births and that time you dropped sauce down your top and felt glad no one saw. Without me, who would know about the shipwreck that left no survivors? Who would laugh at the memories they'd forgotten? Without me, who would have a story? In answer to your as yet unasked question, I watch, and I make history. 

In the space of three hours, Lyla had showered, packed and cycled down to the Jamsworth Stream. She now stood on an outcrop of trees and bushes, surveying the green below. There'd been too much milk in her tea. It had been white, merely milky water. White to contrast with the green; white to contrast with the smiles. The Jamsworth Stream was four miles from her house, across wheat fields, pampas grass and public footpaths. Summer weekends in the village meant biking down to the brook, and throwing yourself off a wooden ledge into the welcome bliss of the Jammy. The recent weather had put a temporary stop to this, but the yellow sun was smiling today. 
A burly rope hung down from a thick elbow of bark above her. There was no breeze. There was laughter. There were smiles. There was happiness. Four pairs of shoulders erupted out of the water below, four mouths gasping through grins. And one. One dark, slender string of a girl, with coat-hanger shoulders and splayed toes. She chose not to use the rope today. Today, she chose to die. 
"Come on, Lyla," Jake shouted, his jubilant smile shining. His eyes glittered, great snow globes of joy. Come on, baby. She flicked a V in his direction and he barked out a sunshine laugh. Feet perpendicular to the edge. Legs coiled to spring. Arms rigid paddles clipped close to her sides.  I knew it would happen. I saw it a thousand seconds before it happened. I didn't try to stop her: I couldn't. I stood dutifully by to watch the splayed toes break over the edge as her foot slipped. To watch as the feather with coat-hanger shoulders drifted into the Jammy. Happiness very quickly turned to shock. It often changes, rarely lingers. Today was no different. Happiness refused to linger here. 
To everyone at the Jammy that day, Lyla fell like a snowflake, soft and gentle. Lazy. Like she had all the time in the world. Of course, time was something she did not have. It took her exactly three seconds to land. Three seconds from splayed toes, perpendicular to the edge, to wide eyes, sucked into the murky brown of the Jammy. The tea was milky. Her three seconds were full with milky tea. Disappointing tea. You may think it strange that a dying soul would concern themselves with such frivolities in their last three seconds. It's not. I can guarantee that you will not think of all the things that you'll miss, all the people that you'll leave behind when you die. You'll kick yourself for forgetting to buy cat food, remember that thing that bugged you earlier, wonder if your next-door neighbour likes eggs. These are the thoughts that will fill your three seconds. Quite unsatisfying, really. 
There was another second. Four seconds from splayed toes, perpendicular to the edge, to her head splitting on the rock beneath the surface. Silver. Red. Blue. Green. Tendrils of light burst out of her eyes. A spiralling cloud of scarlet danced in the murky water, as four pairs of shoulders jumped frantically forward. But water is slow. Cruel. It took the first person - Jake, if it's important - six enormous seconds to reach her. It took the others just one more.  Eleven. 
For Lyla, it took only five. As the silver specks and flicks of light popped and the red cloud drifted lazily and gracefully around her, she blamed Jake. It was his fault the tea had been milky, his fault it was disappointing. If he'd rung just ten minutes later, it would have been perfect.  She made a resolution to put less milk in next time, and was vaguely aware that she couldn't. That she wouldn't. It angered her to think that her very last drink was such a disappointment , amused her that she was thinking about this now. 
But the milky tea clung to her, seeped into her. It would not let her go, just as the Jammy would not let go. Brown white milk and brown green water wrapped their arms around her, forced their fingers into her mouth and nose and eyes. One. Silver became red, orange, purple, green, pink, a thousand colours, each more beautiful than the last. More beautiful than life. It was so tempting to just watch the colours, to sink to the depths and watch them grow more and more beautiful.
Two. Red ... Silver ... Blue... The tendrils looked tired, now; bored. They moved slower, tantalisingly beautiful. They coaxed her brain, slower and slower, into the depths. 
Three. Green .  A spark of white popped lazily; a searing pain ripped across her legs and arms, slicing sharper than a razor. Milk filled Lyla's eyes. Her chest tried to rip itself apart.
Four. Blue . A flicker of pain stabbed across her sinuses, behind her eyes, through the dancing sparks and strokes. And the milky tea still bugged her. Why today? Why, if today were to happen like this? Or maybe that was the point. Maybe.
Red . Barely distinguishable.
. Green . the colours had faded to nothing. Milk in milky eyes. Wide eyes. 
Five. A cold hand, hard and icy as steel clamped around her arm, pulled at her coat-hanger shoulders. Elastic hair spread itself possessively, insolently across her face. The sunshine laughter had died. The tea had been milky.