Echo of a Bird's Cry

THE HERO ANGEL OCTOBER 3

I caused Eden grief and pain. I hated myself for a long time for it. I used to replay that night over and over in my head, trying to figure out what I could've done right. I relived the eighth of July countless times.

Eden followed John to Africa for the summer. They both were on a quest to better the lives of poverty stricken villages. They built water wells. But going to Africa meant more to Eden. The first time Eden saw her mother Elizabeth get abused by her father, her mother bought Eden her first diamond necklace. It was a heart pendant. She was seven years old. Eden earned her second diamond necklace when her alcoholic father gripped her elbow too tight and left her arm bruised. Eden's gifts of diamonds kept growing and piling up. She wasn't the only one. Her sisters had diamond necklace collections of their own. Eden used to adorn herself with diamond necklaces and stare blankly into the mirror. She had so many necklaces. The precious stones covered every inch of skin on her neck. The diamond necklaces were layered thickly. I knew it wasn't a vanity thing. Eden rejected vanity. She was a conscious consumer. Before she could enjoy a simple cup of coffee, she tracked down where the Arabica beans were imported from and made sure the coffee farmers in Colombia and Ethiopia were paid fair wages. Eden told me that the sparkling carats around her throat were blood diamonds. The diamonds weren't mined in a war zone to finance violent rebels. The diamonds were tainted from their environment. The flawless stones were tainted with the blood, sweat, and tears of her people. She told me about an artisanal mine in the southwest Democratic Republic of the Congo and how children as young as twelve are forced to work in the mine to survive, mining day in and day out, searching for stones. The mine workers earned as little as ten dollars whenever they found a diamond. The owner of the mine took seventy percent of all earnings. The miners had to split what was left with their sluicing crew. The children and people working in the mine had little to no money. She told me that the precious stones are tainted with the blood of the innocent: hers and the underpaid and overworked laborers that risked their lives every day to find them. She told me that she would build a castle with the stones that were used to keep her and the people of the Congo oppressed. Eden sent me a picture of herself when she went to Africa. She went to a small mining village and helped build a school. She paid for the village children's education and all debts they had. The photo is of her with numerous diamond necklaces around her throat and village children, men, and women surrounded her. They reached out to touch her like she was a prophet. They worshiped her. She built a castle with the stones that oppressed her. She was the queen of the Congo. I knew she was fulfilling her purpose there. Her destiny was written in blood, sweat, and tears. I just wanted to be there with her to witness it. The only reason I wasn't by her side was because Eden didn't want me there. She said it wasn't fair to John. She said it was his trip that he planned and Eden was just tagging along. She wanted it to be free of conflict and drama. I honestly think she didn't want two men she loved in the same room, much less going on a trip together and being together on a daily basis. That would've been too much for Eden. She left me behind because she couldn't handle it. We argued over the phone often. I knew she wanted to work things out with John. A part of me knew she still loved him and wanted to be with him. On the eighth of July, Eden called me just to break up with me. It was impersonal and impulsive. The break up left me confused and hurt. The break up left me reeling. Eden was my fiancée. The next minute she wasn't. She was on the other side of the globe and there was nothing I could do about it. Eden was known to self-sabotage when she was afraid. I don't remember much after the break up. I got angry. I got drunk. I was belligerent. I passed out. I woke in my bed with the taste of bourbon in my mouth, burning the back of my throat. Emily was curled in the fetal position beside me, weeping. In the moonlight her blonde hair looked like threads of silver that spilled across my pillowcase. She wouldn't tell me what was wrong. She clutched the sheets to her chest when I reached for her. I sat up and my world tilted but I shoved the blankets out of the way. My stomach turned at the sight. Blood and semen ran between her thighs, staining her little white pristine satin nightgown and the white bedsheets beneath her. I vomited. We both cried. I thought I forced myself on her. Emily had to convince me it was consensual. I apologized to her. Losing her virginity should've been better than the horror of what happened. She apologized to me, trying to convince me she was the aggressor, that I did nothing wrong. I felt at fault here. There was nothing Emily could say to convince me otherwise. I ran her a bath. The sooner she washed me off of her the better. I stripped the soiled sheets off the mattress and threw them away. I gave myself a scalding shower and washed her virgin blood off me. Things have never been the same. Emily spent years in dialectical behavior therapy for her borderline personality disorder. She has since been in recovery. She hasn't had any setbacks. Emily has worked extremely hard to maintain her recovery. Change is for the better. As for me, I've never touched a drop of alcohol since that horrifying night. Emily and I both died on the eighth of July. We rose from the ashes reborn.