14
Fourteen years ago, Kelly died. When I got the news, I was speeding across Belfast in a cab with my Mum and my brother, trying to get to the hospital. A text. It was the worst day of my life. The pain hasn't gone away, and it never will. She was only 36 years old. You don't know with these things. Well, I didn't. I had no frame of reference at all. You think it will ease, and I suppose it has, a bit. But the anger, the outrage, the deep well of sadness, they're all still there, impediments to her memory, all the shit I have to wade through to get to her. I still get a jolt when a picture of her pops up on my social media feeds. People post them on anniversaries like this and, of course, people have every right to post the pictures of Kelly. A lot of them knew her a lot longer than I did. They were her friends. I don't own her memory, I don't have a claim on their relationship with her. But it still hits me in the guts. She was so great, and so young. I never g...
