That was the title of the diary entry I’d found at the crime scene. The writer of which was splayed on the bed, his insides pulled out in the shape of a pentagram. I looked at his face; contorted into a grimace of sheer horror - eyes wide open and bloodshot. His diary was wide open on his desk, with the last entry written no more than a day ago, based on the inky smell that still prevailed from the pages. It was as follows:
“I’ve known Greg for many years. We met at NYU, with both of us studying English Lit. He was a pretty cool guy; he had an industrial ear piercing on his left ear, and messy but stylish black hair. He played the guitar - electric, and only smoked roll-ups without the filter. Something about ‘appreciating the flavor.’
We fast became friends, and were inseparable; a duo as opposite as yin and yang. I was always a bit more on the reserved side, and despite my height, I was extremely unassuming. A plain-jane, if you will. Mousy brown hair that jutted out unevenly due to multiple crowns, and a set of thick-rimmed glasses doomed me to insignificance, until I’d begun to hang around Greg. His happy-go-lucky personality and warming aura opened me to a life I’d never believed to be in my reach.
Turns out, once you gain a little bit of confidence, the girls come flocking. I’m sure my height helped as well, but had it not been for the support from Greg, I’d be in the same situation as Andy Stitzer. We had started a small band, because I had ‘a way with drumsticks no one had ever seen before’, according to Greg, and our lead singer, Jeremy. I’m sure Dave Grohl would beg to differ.
It was at one of our gigs that Greg met Moira. For some reason, its always the hottest girls that have the worst names. Greg pointed her out before the set, talking about some girl that ‘had the best face he’d ever seen’, stood next to the bar. It wasn’t hard to spot her, because she was unbelievably beautiful. Tall, slim, with bleached blonde hair, and heavy black eyeshadow. Jeremy and I had urged him to speak to her - because, and I mean this in the straightest way possible; Greg was literally the best-looking guy I’d ever seen.
The guy was on the shorter side, sure, but he was attractive, even I could give him that. Half-Korean and some other Slavic influence. Piercing green eyes to match. If he hadn’t been 5ft 6, the dude could’ve been a runway model. Plus, he’d never struggled with the ladies until then. But for some reason, he was extremely shy. Shyer than Jeremy and I had ever seen him be in the entire time we’d known him.
I suppose that’s love at first sight, though.
They’d begun to chat after the set; Greg buying Moira endless drinks in an attempt to show off. She’d obliged, growing more and more amused by Greg’s increasingly drunken state. Unlike Moira, he wasn’t adept at handling alcohol. Cheeks flushed and slumped over the bar, Moira had alerted us to his passed out body, telling us to take him home. She’d slipped her number into his pocket, and, despite his awful hangover and Sunday dreads the next day, he’d jumped for joy once Jeremy had ushered him to check his pocket.
That was the beginning of them. Moira and Greg, Greg and Moira. Groira? Meg? It was never quite Brangelina or Bennifer, but it was their own quaint little world. I liked Moira a lot. She was plenty chill, and had a fantastic lasagna recipe that we’d all get a piece of when she’d come over to cook for Greg. And God, he was smitten. It was truly perfect to see the guy who’d been such a help to me and my self-confidence be happy. It helped a lot that Moira’s friends were cute, too. Everything was perfect.
University came and went in a flash, and soon we were thrust out of the world of meaningless sex, music, and partying, and into the cruel, corporate machine that is adulthood. I got a job as a teacher; I’d always loved my High School English Teacher, for supporting my talent in the subject despite my family’s struggles. I wanted to give back to the community. So, I set up in a run-down High School in the Bronx, not far from where I lived when I was growing up. Its a bit of a journey every morning, but seeing the kids’ enthusiasm for the subject grow was something that truly gave my life meaning.
Jeremy went into stand-up, and he’s pretty good at it too. It was just a hobby for a while, until he started to get podcast appearances. He still works part-time at a bar, purely because of ‘networking.’ Not sure how that helps, but he’s doing well. Greg joined Moira’s Dad’s firm. Of course, classic Greg, managing to get an absolute Goddess for a girlfriend, and a high-paying job simply because her rich Dad liked him.
It was a great few years. We kicked about on the rockstar vibe for a bit - just as a hobby, and had a few Saturday night sets here and there. Some of my students tried to come in to a bar we played at once, which obviously didn’t work out for them, but after some convincing, I’d convinced the Principal not to punish them, and he’d said we could play at Homecoming. It was a great night.
Until Greg got the news.
Moira had been hit by a driver. A teenage girl, who’d been desperately trying to make her way to the hospital through contractions, had accidentally mounted the curb, and pinned Moira between the hood of the car and the lamppost. Pretty much crushed all of her insides, and snapped her spine on impact. Moira was coherent for a bit, and told the emergency services her name and address, before passing away. It was a tragic affair.
The teenage girl gave birth in the ambulance. Moira had spoken to her before dying, pinned there, trying to tell the officers that the heavily pregnant teen was innocent - not to blame. The girl was let off. A fine for disorderly driving; due to her circumstances, it was simply unfair to put her to court. Greg thought otherwise.
He became angry and violent. Moira’s Dad sympathised, obviously, but couldn’t bring himself to take the teenager to court. She was an abused young girl, who’d tried to escape a dreadful family situation. Only sixteen.
Greg was inconsolable. He spent every evening drinking, and snorting cocaine. Not that cocaine was uncommon in his field of work, but there’s a clear difference between recreational activities and addiction. Every night we’d hear him in his room, slamming things around and screaming. Jeremy grew uncomfortable; said his girlfriend didn’t want to come over to our shared flat anymore. It was tough, trying to deal with a grieving friend. Like I’d said before, we all adored Moira, but nothing could ever amount to the pain Greg felt. Especially under the circumstances that I’d asked him to play with me for my own High School.
I think he’d despised me for a bit. For taking him away from his last few moments with the love of his life. I get it, I mean - had I been in his position, I don’t know how I could reconcile it.
The funeral was a strange sight to behold. Greg seemed emotionless; unwavering. I could’ve sworn I’d seen a grin here and there, but once registering it, it was replaced with pure sorrow.
Moira’s Dad grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, asking him why he’d been smirking the entire time, so I knew I wasn’t crazy. Greg just said Moira wasn’t gone, she was right at home.
Greg lost his job soon after.
The teenage girl who accidentally took Moira’s life ended up being my student. She was an extremely kind and talented young woman, who desperately needed support. I’d been promoted, slightly, to be a guidance counsellor, and helped her through her trauma a lot, but as a professional, told her to go to the other guidance counsellor when talking about the incident with Moira. I cannot let my students be harmed in any way because of my flatmate’s experiences. That would be immoral and unfair. She’s just a kid.
Sorry, I realise I’ve blabbed on about stuff that isn’t integral to the point. Jeremy ended up moving out, and so it was me and Greg in the same flat. Like I’d said before, Greg went off the rails. No job, no income, nothing. He was wealthy though, so his parents fuelled his bizarre lifestyle. I barely ever saw him, most of the time, until he came to me with a thing he’d found on a chat website for bereaved lovers.
“There’s a way to get her back.”
Obviously, I thought this was some grieving process - something he’d found that’d helped him keep her in his memory, but nothing too serious. I indulged him, asking him what he’d meant.
“Well, first off, we need to paint some pictures of her.”
I’ve never painted anything well before. Yet, I gave it a go, as to not force my friend into an even darker place than before. I produced a crudely made painting, which he’d been ever so happy to accept. His was far better than mine; detailed beyond belief. I’d asked him if he’d had a reference photo, but he just shrugged and smiled. Happy. Content.
“Now, we need to burn her things.”
I was unsure at that. Greg loved her so deeply - kept everything of hers in perfect condition. To burn her things seemed odd to me, but I choked it down to him finally moving on, releasing himself from the shackles of grief. I mean, its been six years. Its certainly time to grab life by the handles again, now we’re both nearing thirty. We burnt them. Watched them be put on the fireplace. Jeremy came round to help console Greg, as he wailed with each item incinerated. We drank a lot of whisky that night, reminiscing over old times. That was the closest to normal we’d seen him in a while, his expression closer to harmonious clarity than ever before.
Greg had found out the teenaged girl who’d accidentally murdered Moira was one of my students. He wasn’t upset, but more… perplexed. He was surprised she’d gotten back on her feet. He never paid it much mind - not to my knowledge.
Recently, I’ve become severely unwell. I’m not sure what’s wrong with me, but I’m unable to get out of bed. I suspect there must be mould in the house, or something. I keep telling Greg, but he just brushes it off, talking about how healthy he is, now he has a job at a nearby bar. If he’s not sick, why am I?
But Greg did leave me unsettled. I’d catch him reading books on the Occult more often than not, despite his attempts to hide them behind his back once I’d caught him. He’d even gone so far to put a padlock on his door, so that no one could enter his room once he’d left the flat. Like he was hiding something. I’ve tried to talk to Jeremy again, but he refuses to speak to me. He blocked me on all forms of contact - I can’t even email his work email.
I’ve been bedridden the past few days, and I’m not sure I’ll make it. I don’t have any family to turn to, and from what I’ve heard, some fantastic new substitute teacher has had the same grade results that I did, if not better. I’m so weak, and maybe its my mind going crazy.
I think I hear Moira’s voice from Greg’s room.”
-
“Hey, there’s more!” Jones yelled from the hallway. I’ll update more soon.