Looking out at sea

Helen looks over the wooden barrier out at sea. It’s beautiful. The sea is clear, the sky is too, and it’s a peaceful atmosphere. She does this every year since she lost him. He was all she had, and all she wanted. Helen couldn’t move on.

Helen’s friends would tell her to stop going back as it’s too painful. They’d tell her she needs to move on and live her life. Helen would ask them what they knew about living life because none of them had one, before storming off.

Helen would not let this go, she wouldn’t allow herself to forget him. No matter what happened she’d be here every year in the same place. The location was the south of France, Nice to be specific. It’s not a bad place to reminisce about someone you’ve lost, it could have been somewhere cold or poor.

Helen would never cry when visiting, she said crying was gay. They were strong conservatives who didn’t believe in expressing emotions other than anger and rage.

Tourists would come up to Helen thinking she was a local, and ask for directions. Helen would get furious, and tell them where to go. She didn’t mind being interrupted, she just hated people accusing her of being French. Despite being in France, Helen had a distaste for the French and all they stood for. Helen’s friends described her as “overtly and proudly racist.”

No one ever said Helen was a good person, or even a nice one. She’s just a small-town lady in France remembering her dead cat. He didn’t die in Nice, no, not even in France. He died in Switzerland, but Helen didn’t know where it was, and, in her own words, France was“basically the same thing.”