note: some of this chapter contains a sort of questioning or challenging of god (I write this from a christian perspective, for those who are interested). For those who are religious, they might find it sacrilegious or insulting, or possibly a variation on the Book of Job in a sense and so nothing too sacreligious or even new. For those who are not religious, it probably doesn't matter.

We add meaning to our existence. But how true is this meaning that we create for ourselves? Is it all just a story, like a bard's rollicking yarn?

Why do I cry for Jen, when I know she can not hear me? I know that she will not walk back into my life.

I wish I could bridge the divide between life and death, and hear Jen's voice again. I wish I had the strength to move on without her. I don't have the strength to stay behind. I wish I could chase down Death, throttle his bony neck, and give him a few kicks to the balls! I wish I knew whether Death's hands work by fate or by coincidence; whether he does God's bidding or follows the whim of his own fancy. Did he look down at the world that night, see Jen in the full flush of youth, think to himself 'my there's a scrumptious thing', and then proceed to devour her soul?

And what about God? Where do You come in? I am told that You are a bastard, Lord, having no mother or father – do you act like a bastard? Do you enjoy the taste of a young female soul? Do you take pleasure in the harvest of the soft lips, the smooth skin, the firm body, and the other things that are the domain of youth?

But why should I bother to ask? No good Lord would approve, supervise, and aide the death of an innocent young thing. What are You? Do you get off on it? Did you and the devil make some sort of pact? How do we tell the two of you apart? Is that what you do? Play? Is it fun for the two of you? Or do you, Lord, prefer to watch alone quietly?

Jen never hurt anyone. There are so many horrible people in the world who go on living, without justice, without punishment, without death. It is unacceptable to me that they should live and Jen should die. It should have been me.

So maybe there is no God, no Death, no fate, no devil, no real innocence, no meaning at all. Maybe everything is arbitrary and random. Maybe Jen, and me, and every other human life is just as meaningful as the life of a dung beetle, and just as easily squashed out of existence. Oh yes, we humans like to believe ourselves to be so profound, so intelligent. If it were not for our tendency to live meaningless lives and to die meaninglessly, I would think that we were His favorite.

If only it were true, then Jen would still be alive.

In the end, Death makes losers of us all. The soft sound of the trees is not heard by the dead. The warmth of the sun is not felt by the dead. The moon – cold, silver, and silent – is very much like death itself, but even it is not seen by those who have gone to dust.

Here I am, suffering through the so-called "stages" of grief, and I wonder, why bother? I too will die one day. So why be sad for Jen when all of my thoughts, deeds, and emotions will also end as nothing?

I came to that non-denominational sack-of-shit chapel where Jen's body was laid out like a buffet lunch. Her relatives were arranged around her like hungry cartoon vultures waiting to peck at a two-dimensional Wile E . Coyote killed by an Acme Anvil. They stood silently and morbidly. They acted sad, as if they had ever actually cared about her. I don't think any of them had ever spent time with her while she was alive, but now that she was dead the whole lot attended to her like they were her personal footmen.

Aunts, cousins, and other random relatives milled around in the room adjoining the visitation room. There was a table with a spread of meats, cheeses, bread, and beverages. Normally people don't feel like eating when they are bereaved, but who here was truly sad? And those who did eat were likely to use the same excuse that Odysseus did after the death of his friend Achilles: "Despite our grief we must eat to maintain our strength. Starving does us no justice to the dead."

There was no stained glass here. No artwork depicting the angels or saints. The building was a box, a moving-house of the dead. What few windows I found only let in the musky yellow air of the adjacent highway.

I could not eat. The sight of meat on display, in one room in just the exact same way that Jen was on display in the next room, made me feel sick. But the aunts, cousins, and other random relatives gorged themselves until a moving-house employee announced that the service was starting.

Swallowing their last bits of food, the audience filed into the coffin room and sat shiftily and anxiously. I sat down near the back. I could not bear to be too close to Jen. I could not bear to look at her pale face. I know now that there is no more horrible sight than a beautiful girl who is dead.

The preacher, or canon, or whatever he was, came in and gave a touching speech about how unfortunate it is to lose someone to drugs. He didn't even bother to read from the Bible. He just did some phony pulpit philosophy, expressed his condolences, and said a prayer. There was no eulogy.

The church man made his exit, and soon after four employees grabbed hold of Jen and ceremoniously carried her away. I was sitting at the back. I was busy shuddering because of Jen, when her father saw me. He stared at me so intensely. He even turned his head to keep his eye on me as he walked away.

I went to the cemetery, following after Jen's body, and stood at the back of the crowd. The preacher guy said a prayer and the casket-lowering machine lowered Jen's remains into the ground. The cemetery ceremony ended and I walked back with everyone else to the "chapel." The bulk of the people made their way to the snacks. They engorged themselves once more to quell any undesired stirrings of their conscience.

I stood against a wall, looking for a familiar face, and I found none. I was about to make my exit when I found myself staring into the chest of Jen's father.

"Who do you think you are," he said.

"What?" I asked.

"Who the fuck do you think you are coming here?"

A few people in the room began to stare in my direction. I was silent, motionless, unable to speak or move.

Jen's father became more agitated by just looking at me. He growled at me, like a wild beast, and yelled, "You murdered my daughter and have the nerve to come here!"

I stood frozen, in shock that he would accuse me of killing someone that I loved. I offered no defense, except for an attempt at a few senseless stammering sounds.

Jen's mother rushed over when she realized what was happening. She put her hand on her husband's arm.

"Please," she said quietly. Her face was suddenly deathly white and her body shook. The father ignored her.

Literally breathing down my neck, he said to me, "Did it make you feel like a tough guy, force-feeding a poor little girl drugs?"

I felt his spit landing on me. It was hot.

I managed to get a dumb sentence out from between my frozen lips: "I didn't give her drugs."

"Like hell you didn't!" screamed her father, trembling and turning crimson red. "You fucking liar," he roared thunderously, "I'm gonna kick some sense into you!"

He grabbed my shirt and started to try to lift me. Two of Jen's uncles flew across the room and pulled him off me. I backed away and I was unsure of what to do. But then I saw the look in Jen's mother's eyes and I knew I'd better leave. I ran, and as I ran out of the building I could here the faint rumbling of an enraged animal's voice. I think the building shook.

What should I have done in the face of such opposition? How could I defend myself? The police had believed me when I told them they were her drugs – apparently she already had a history with them. But her parents, despite all evidence to the contrary, could not accept that Jen would ever take drugs of her own will, unless she had been somehow coerced. To them she was an angel – or their princess. At least I know what type of angel she really was. An imperfect one.

Jen's parents were always away. Her father worked as an agent for a wine company, so he spent most of the time on the road promoting the vineyard's product. Her mother was a flight attendant and was home barely one day each week. In the entire time that I had known Jen, I had seen her parents only once. They didn't have the slightest idea how much I was involved in her life, even though I slept in her bed as much as I did in my own.

A few weeks earlier I was talking with Jen over lunch at Ned's. It was hot outside, but tolerable inside the café. The resident spiders hung in their corners of the windows, other assorted insects crawled around the potted plants, and as usual there were dead flies in the salad. But despite its occasional esthetic issues, Ned's was one of the most popular lunchtime destinations on campus. Jen and I were situated by the window. One of the spiders dangled a few feet above her head.

"I saw mom last night," she said.

"How was it?"

"Okay. We talked for a few minutes, then she went to bed."

"Wow."

Jen smiled slightly, and said, "I know, but I'm used to it."

"Where did she go?"

"This time, mom went to China."

"Well, I guess she gets to see the world."

Jen shook her head. "She spends almost all her time on the plane, or in the airport hotel sleeping. Mom never gets to see where she's going."

Some professors ambled past our table, chattering between themselves. One of them said "hi" to me as he went by.

"Who's that?" Jen asked.

"Oh, that's my history teacher's assistant. Why?"

"He's hot," Jen said, smiling.

"I never noticed, you know."

"Think he ever gets to bang his students?"

"I don't know if that's allowed," I said.

"Come on. This is university, not high school."

"Hmm. If he did then he's lucky."

"Well that depends."

I asked "Depends on what?"

"Depends on who he gets to bang!"

"What?" I asked in surprise. "Where are you getting this from?"

"What do you mean?"

"You never talk like this. Is something wrong?"

"No. I guess it's my period or something."

"Oh, okay," I said, relieved that Jen was still Jen. "You usually don't joke around like that."

"I know. Don't you like it?"

"Yeah, it's a refreshing change from depressed Jen."

Her eyes opened in surprise. She pushed me and laughed. I pushed her back, a little too hard, and she almost fell out of her chair.

"Hey!" she hollered. "Relax mister!" she shouted.

That was the Jen that I knew. I knew her better than her parents did. I knew her better than myself. I didn't kill her, but I do feel responsible. I was always supportive, always caring, but I don't think I was ever very good at helping with her troubles. Whether she was happy, or whether she was depressed, I still knew her better that I know myself.

What should I do now? Should I put her entirely out of my mind, just live for myself, and be selfish like every other douchebag in the world? I know that both happy Jen and sad Jen would feel the same way about me obsessing about her. But I can't help it, even though it's already been a long time since she left me.

She was just so beautiful. That shiny black hair that was almost too perfect to be real. Those wonderful dark eyes and soft pale skin. She was slight of figure and delicate in motion, with a soft touch and a softer voice. My spirit was lifted by her beauty.

Sometimes at night I dream about her. In my dreams, I'm just talking with her, or eating dinner, or walking down the street, or sitting in the park – but always talking. I dream, and she is with me again, and I feel calm, and loved, and reassured.

In my dreams everything is perfect. Jen and I are happy together. Sometimes we are married. Sometimes we even have children. I am satisfied and happy. I try to stay asleep as much as possible. I try to dream of her whenever I can, so that I can be with her. But then I wake up and I get a slap in the face: I am alone, clutching at nothing but memories and a pillow covered with sweat and tears.

Next chapter to be posted 11/19/2015 or 11/20/2015.