I closed my eyes when I realized what had come to pass. Sat there quietly for a moment; regaining composure. Got up, turned the TV off, walked out and just stared into the darkness.
Stood there for a while, not sure what to make of it. Went for a little stroll too, wandering aimlessly in the street. I needed to be alone.
I knew then that things wouldn’t go back to how they were before. I felt helpless, yes, and there was anger, but it quickly faded into sorrow. Then to despair. I don’t even know how many emotions I went through in those moments, or which ones exactly.
Could things have turned out differently? I asked myself. Was there another way? Was there a separate path, one that led elsewhere, just not here? It was a futile exercise though, because things were never in my hands, they were never in my control.
I was but a mere spectator.
Haunted, and troubled, I turned to the one person I knew would comfort me. She consoled me, she did. She told me it was OK to be sad and, most importantly, she told me to move on because there was bound to be a happy ending. She said there is always a happy ending.
I was young, very young. It was an impressionable age. I guess it’s just natural how I reacted, how long it took me to recover.
Looking back at it, to that day in particular, I cannot help but smile. Isn’t that a surprise?
There indeed was a happy ending. Everything they tell you; you will move on, you will get better, it’s just a phase, it is all true. Life just goes on and it would be funny if it weren’t actually cruel.
I am happy today, well, I am how people are. I laugh and cry, I love and hate. I go out with friends and I spend time with my family. I have it all, in a way.
I might not be the person I was, but that doesn’t really matter.
Today, I am busy with what is now. There is the odd occasion though when the mind goes back in time, when it comes back to you. The heartache comes back, that gut wrenching feeling, the anger, the sorrow.
I guess a part of me will never really move on, a part of me will always hang on to that memory, and to the pain.
The pain I felt that day, the pain that lives on in me, the pain that reminds me.
Mufasa was killed.
And Simba was blamed for it.