The sweet scent of pine hangs in the air as I step out into the backyard and lower the trolley down the two stone steps. Freshly fallen leaves scrunch softly under my feet as I make my way to the storage shed to gather a few bundles of wood and some lamp oil before pulling the trolley out along the cobblestone walk outside your house and down to the beach. Bittersweet memories toy with my emotions as I remember all the time we spent on this beach, watching sunsets, building fires, along with other memories that tease an involuntary smile from me.

The soft sea breeze blows its salty spray against my skin as I kneel to untie the bundles of wood I brought with me, slowly stacking them on the fire-pit and interlacing them with wads of newspaper before liberally sprinkling it with citronella oil. The soft crashing of the waves against the shore, combined with the briny scent of the sea, brings an unexpected calm to my drumming heart. The sound of seagulls all around me on the shore, the flapping of their wings, their cries and cawing as they wrestle for scraps left behind by beachgoers all fades into the background as I rise and open the matchbook. The pungent smell of sulphur invades my nostrils as I strike the first match and lean in to touch it to the pile of wood, but the salty breeze blows it out even before I get half the way and continues to smother strike after strike. Just as I start to curse at the hopelessness of the situation, I manage to touch one tiny flame to the paper and watch as, within seconds, it engulfs the pit in a sea of flame. The tangy scent of citronella wafts up into the air as I take a few steps back from the pit, noticing ironically how much it resembles a freshly lighted funeral pyre.

I sigh softly as I turn to fetch the box, acknowledging to myself as I drag it across the damp sand that the box's weight has little to do with how long it takes me to bring it closer to the ring of fire. Kneeling on the sand, I open the box gingerly, lifting a large manila envelope to sift through its contents; all of your personal effects are in here, along with a letter penned with a shaky hand; your shaky hand.

Jess,

If you are reading this, the worst of our nightmares must have already become your reality. Know that I am in a place I need to be. A place I am ready to be in. Know this and be at peace.

I had my doubts about packing this box; something inside me kept telling me that you would not go through with it, but you always managed to surprise me in the past. You will again. Your strength is what I count on most, which is probably unfair, but unfair is something you expect from me by now. True?

As, by now, you must have discovered, I have packed all my personal papers; old letters, identity documents, medical reports, everything I hope will never exist without me by their side. I have also packed all my photographs; you know how I feel about those, so please do not be tempted to keep any of them. My favourite CDs and books are in here as well; please feel free to keep them if you like. You finally get to have my Miss Sixty t-shirt; how cool is that? I have packed your manuscripts, as well as your anthology of poems – I hope that you will take my advice and send it off to a publisher; your work has always been a step above the rest. Trust me on that; I would not be saying this if I did not believe in you. There are other personal items in here as well, as you have undoubtedly seen by now; please destroy all of them – they aren't things I would pass on to anyone else.

I know that your life is full and I have no right to ask this, but I will anyway. Please make sure that David is okay. I know that he is strong, but he has had too much loss and pain in his life. Do not allow him to shut himself off from living. Be gentle with Alex; he is so much stronger than you or he realises. Help him find that strength. Nick will take care of himself; he always has – chances are he will be there to take care of all of you. And Mum. She will be stubborn. She will tell you that she is fine; she is not. If you work together, I am sure that the lot of you can convince her to go back home to Ireland. That will be best for her, to be around her family.

My affairs are all in order; the lawyers have their instructions on how to proceed with everything else.

If I never said this often enough, I love you. You have been my strength through the dark days, my inspiration when everything seemed hopeless, my friend, my sister, my voice of reason. I am sorry for the pain I have caused you. You always said that sorry comes too late, see... you were right yet again. You have always been right.

Eternally yours,

Leila

With trembling hands, I clutch the letter, re-reading it through blurry eyes. An unexpected calm settles over me like a worn-out, tatty old blanket as I read it for the fourth time. Determination and renewed strength found in the unlikeliest of places; your last words to me. I hear your voice clearly, feel your presence strongly as I get up and throw the first of the items onto the fire. One by one, each item finds its way into the incandescent pit, the fire flickering and glowing against the fast-darkening sky. I watch as every tangible trace of your existence disintegrates before my eyes, the heat-seared edges curling inward before falling away and becoming one with the fiery coals fuelling this pity party of ours. I watch as a breeze lifts the tattered remains of charred paper and scatters it to corners unknown as the fire crackles and sizzles excitedly, its hunger growing with every new morsel it is fed.

I peer down into the near-empty box; your Miss Sixty t-shirt, an Evanescence CD and my pile of manuscripts stares back at me as if in relief that they have been spared the fate of their fellow box dwellers. I come close to being weighed down by the heaviness of my sigh as I lift the heavy stack of haphazardly bound papers to leaf through them briefly before tossing them onto the hungry flames as they hiss at me to be fed. You had always believed in me, inspired me. Everything I had ever written was because of you, for you. They were always for you. I watch as years of work go up in flames that lick out at me in seeming gratitude for having its newly found appetite sated. I close my eyes as a gentle breeze caresses my face, feeling the untamed heat warm me to the core as I listen to the sounds of the shore, as every sound, every scent, every delicate nuance invades my heightened senses and strokes my soul like the hand of a consoling lover.

I watch the dancing flames, my mind awash with thoughts of you, of how easy it always was to be around you, be a part of you. I curse the disease that has taken you from us, but I fear that you would chastise me for my abhorrent thoughts. Through my tears, I see your smile; I hear your softly spoken words. "This life is fleeting, my friend. It is the one that lies ahead we should be living for." How did you get to be so young, yet so wise?

I am hit by the realisation that no one who ever loved you would ever be the same again, not with you taken from this world too soon. Not Nick, your trusted friend and companion, the one who illuminated your dark moments with his sense of humour, drama and flair. Not my brother, Alex, who loves you with an intensity that most people only read of in novels of passionately undying adoration. Not your husband, David, who has loved you for a lifetime, only to have you ripped away two seconds after your lives together had begun. Not your mother, for whom life was always about you, about living just long enough to see you fulfilled. Not me.

♦♦♦

As I leant in and touched the wooden base of the trophy, his eyes snapped open and I had to struggle to keep my balance as surprise knocked me back, damn near making me take a tumble right on top of him. Would it not have been poetic if I had cracked my head and we were found in some horrific deathly embrace? I can almost see you smiling, Lei. As ghastly as that image may be, you have to admit, it would have been rather comic.

So I stood there in horror, his flat eyes staring up at me, pleading with me. He opened his mouth a few times, but that moment has such a blurry quality in my memory that I cannot be sure how many times he tried to speak with no sound forming. I was thankful for that one blessing. As much as my heart was filled with hate in that moment of dread and conflicting emotions, I cannot be sure that I could have ignored the pleas of a dying man. So I stood there, Lord forgive me, I just stood there and watched him take his last breath.

I cannot tell you how many seconds passed, but it felt like an eternity. An infinity of anguished thoughts and fucked up emotions. I refuse to dwell on the 'what ifs' and the 'should haves'; it served no purpose at that time, so I doubt that it would now. I eventually lifted the trophy from its resting place beside his now lifeless form, cleaned off every trace of the role it played in a very unfortunate series of events and placed it back in its empty space upon the shelf. Then I left the apartment, your bag tucked under my arm.