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lizchat.neocities.org
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my name is miriam, and this website used to be a chat-forum-thingy run by myself and someone
who was very important to me. it has since been repurposed to remember her.
her name was elizabeth, but nobody ever called her that.
she wished they would call her eliza, but everyone called her liz.
she was a sweet girl, a kind soul, and that was about all most people had to say about her.
she was always there to help, always ready and willing to break her back for others.
you might have seen her sitting on the edge of the bridge by the center of town.
many people saw her, and passed her by. she was nothing special to them.
she sat there nearly every day, balanced on that stone railing, sketching something,
reading something, writing something. i think i was the only one to ever see her work.
nobody knew liz like i did. i was the only one who ever really cared.
she had a pretty mop of hair that hid the bruises on her neck.
she wore heavy wool sweaters that hid the burns on her arms.
she wore long layered skirts that hid the cuts on her thighs.
or the bruises, but i saw them all. i knew her better than i know myself.
i'll never know
i think we were kind of a joke to the rest of the town.
whenever she wasn't at her spot on the bridge, or wherever she went to
sleep and eat, we were together. the town knew what we were, and they hated us for it.
i think that's why nobody ever bothered to fish her body out of the river.
the cops called it a suicide - but what would they know? they never even did an autopsy.
on top of that, i have to walk down that bridge every day to get to work and
i can't help but look at her body every single time still sitting there and
i could swear it isn't even decaying and
there's something wrong with her neck and it isn't from the fall like they said
it's only a five foot drop from the bridge to the water she couldn't have broken her neck from that
i can't explain it it's all twisted and wrong and i know
her neck i've kissed her neck a thousand times and that's not how it looked i know it isn't
her sketchbook, journal, and the book she was reading were all still on the
stone railing when they found her, they were right where she liked to sit.
the cops gave them to me, i couldn't tell you why. i feel like they should have gone
to her family - if she even had a family, she always got so cagey when i asked - but
clearly the cops in this town don't care about "standard procedure" when they've left
her body lying in the river for weeks. maybe i'm paranoid, but sometimes
it feels like they gave me her belongings to taunt me.
there was something else too - a page torn out of her sketchbook.
it had writing on it, this god-awful poem. it was written in the ink of the pen she always used but...
something is off about the handwriting. i can't explain it, but i don't think she wanted to write it.
days later, i recieved a text from her. i think she must have schedueld it in advance.
all it contained was a single image, one that i will attach below, along with the poem.
this image and poem make me sick to my stomach, but they are the last
things my eliza left in this world, and i think she must have wanted them
to be seen. my only hope is that someone out there can understand them
better than me. she was always the smart one.
liz lies beneath the lilies
in the shadow of the bridge
fridgid waters
rip away her tears
while i find it disturbing that they never moved your body out of that river,
i think you would be happy knowing you ended up so close to your favorite place in the world.
i hope whatever comes after life treats you way better than the world did while you were alive.
i hope i'll see you there someday, so i can cry on your shoulder as i tell you how much i miss you.
i love you.
yours forever,
-miriam
- LIZCHAT.NEOCITIES.ORG - v1.2.7 - 2025 -
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MIRIAM
COME TO ME
I WILL WAIT FOR YOU
I WILL WAIT FOR YOU
I WILL WAIT FOR YOU
I WILL WAIT