You said, “Let’s go to a club.”  

‎I said, “No, I’m not into the rave life, not into that stuff.”  

‎You persuaded me. I went with you. I mean, I’m your girlfriend after all.  

‎We got to the party. It wasn’t really my kind of vibe.  

‎Unknown people here and there. It wasn’t really my style.  

‎I begged you, “Babe, please, let’s leave.”  

‎You said to give you a couple of minutes.

‎

‎As you imagined, a couple of minutes turned into a couple of hours.  

‎Time for shots. You took the first, second, the third.  

‎I warned you about the fourth.  

‎My words fell on deaf ears. You still took the fourth, and the fifth, and the sixth, until we both lost count.  

‎I would have left then. I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt.

‎

‎Deep in the night, “Babe, let’s leave. Order a cab,” I said.  

‎He ordered a cab.  

‎The cab man came, and we left.  

‎Ten minutes into the drive, he stopped for a while to take a piss.  

‎Now, I don’t know how long it takes to take a piss, but I’m getting scared already.  

‎I told my man. He said I was being paranoid.  

‎I just knew it was the alcohol talking.

‎

‎After a long piss, three men rushed in.  

‎Before I could blink, one more joined them.  

‎Plus the driver. Do the maths: five masked men there.  

‎Now, it’s two masked men on my drunk boyfriend.  

‎Two masked men on me, and one did the driving.  

‎I’m not going into the details.  

‎We both know how the story ends.

‎

‎We both lost something that night.  

‎He lost his life. I lost my dignity, my soul.  

‎I was killed and buried by my conscience.  

‎How’s that possible?  

‎How is it possible that my heart was darker and colder than a coffin?  

‎What do I tell your mom?  

‎What do I tell your dad?

‎

‎I begged you, “Let’s leave, let’s…”  

‎It’s pointless throwing blame at the dead.  

‎It’s not like they could catch it.

‎

‎Who else is wondering what happened that night?  

‎In truth, I don’t know either.  

‎They kicked us out of the car when they found out he was dead.  

‎Typical of them, right?  

‎I tried crawling my way out. I passed out.  

‎I guess I was so eager to join him.  

‎It’d be better; I wouldn’t have to explain to his parents and mine.  

‎I mean, wouldn’t that be fine?

‎

‎I woke up in the hospital, my parents watching my every move with fear in their faces and tears in their eyes.  

‎Who knows the thoughts in their disturbed minds.  

‎I turned to my left, turned to my right; I couldn’t find him.  

‎I guess the killers did their job right.  

‎I… guess so.

‎

‎I don’t know how to feel; happy that I survived or sad that he died.  

‎I feel guilty. If I cry, people would think it’s crocodile tears.  

‎And… and…  

‎[Sniffles, sniffles]  

‎Hold on, let me get a tissue.

‎

‎I fear stigmatization so bad, I might as well just jump off a cliff to end it all.  

‎My gentle way of telling the world “Fuck y’all.”  

‎Nah, where’s the fun in that?  

‎As a matter of fact, I’m going to kick out the “e” from the emotions I’m feeling, and I’m not going to stop.

‎

‎Who am I kidding? The cliff is just right there.  

‎Just one wrong leap to end it all.  

‎Now, I’m contemplating, fighting one of the battles in this ongoing war.

‎