Sandra Jones Is Dead

Imogen Mills


Sandra Jones Is Dead
Mrs Jones (I'm So Sorry)
Sandra Jones' Mother Is in Hospital

Sandra Jones Is Dead

Local Teen Falls From Cliffs

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Mrs Jones (I'm So Sorry)

Oh Mrs Jones, I'm so sorry
That you had to hear it from me
I knew she'd snuck out before
But I thought this time she'd have the decency
I lost sight of her after a couple of drinks
And when I saw her last I should have called the police

She said "Hey I'm going to the cliff
Thought I'd end it all with one last fall
Do you wanna come too?"

Oh Mrs Jones, I'm so sorry
I was frozen so completely
I honestly thought she was kidding
And it came as sort of a shock to the system
We all thought that she was happy
I never thought she’d do this

By the way, I’m going to the cliff
Thought I’d plant some flowers in the twilight hour
Do you wanna come too?

Oh Mrs Jones, I’m so sorry
There’s so much more I should have done
I just stood there in shock
While Sandra drove off
I thought about calling you
But I found I couldn’t move

Hey, I’m living with it too
The guilt about what I didn’t do
It’s not just you

Hey, I’m just checking in
Your house is quiet but I know you’re in
Your car’s outside

Oh Mrs Jones, that’s a lot of pills
And this time I, I won’t stand still
Yes, I’ve got an emergency
My friend’s unconscious
She’s taken some pills

Oh Mrs Jones, please wake up
I can’t lose you too
It’s too soon

Sandra Jones' Mother Is In Hospital

Sandra Jones. An ordinary name. If you didn’t know. But you did know. Sandra Jones was your best friend, and now she is dead. You had grown up with Sandra Jones, played in her garden when you were seven, had sleepovers in your house when you were ten… attended her funeral when you were seventeen, and too young, really, to have lost your best friend. You had been over, after, to deliver your condolences and offer help to her mother. She had accepted.

The first few weeks you had cleaned her house and made sure she ate properly – and kept her company. Then one day you just blurted it out. “She told me she was going to do it. I’m so sorry.” And you both cried together. After what felt like an hour, you managed to get the rest of the story out. “She told me but right as she left. She asked me if I wanted to come too… Oh, Mrs Jones, I was just frozen in fear, I’m so sorry.” You sobbed out, your words broken by the sheer amount of guilt they held. Then, that evening, you both went to the cliff she had jumped off, and placed some flowers there.

The next morning you had gone over to make her and yourself some breakfast before your first day back at school. It was a big morning for you, since you were the last to go back and not entirely sure you wanted to. She had insisted you go, though. To get into uni. To have a future. “To have what she couldn’t.” She had said, and that was the calmest you had ever seen her.

You knew she was in since your clock read only 0800. However, the house was quiet. There were pancakes on the table for you, but something seemed off. She wasn’t… She didn’t seem present, though she had to be. She had to be. You ran upstairs to find her – not in the bathroom, not in the bedroom- oh. She was in Sandra’s room, a bottle of pills in her hand that had been half full the night before. You knew it had been half full; you had taken to checking how many pills were left on your way out. You didn’t hesitate this time: you called for an ambulance. Within half an hour she was away in the hospital and you…

You didn’t go to school that day.


INT. Hospital.

(A simple hospital room, with one bed and purple flowers in a vase next to it. MRS JONES lies in it, unconscious. Enter NATASHA.)

NATASHA It’s my fault, isn’t it? I’m the common denominator in your attempt and Sandra’s success. Me. Natasha. The best friend. (She runs her hand through her hair.) I am sorry that I told you all those things, though. I shouldn’t have. I just… I didn’t know who else to tell. It’s quite hard, you know. Well, of course you know. (She places a small bouquet of white flowers next to the bed.) I brought you these, from the funeral. It was beautiful. She would have loved it. You, too. I spoke. Of course I spoke, she was my best friend. I’ve got a copy of her eulogy here (She produces a piece of paper and places it next to the bouquet) I thought you might like to read it. A lot of people came. I’m not sure everyone knew her that well, but they did come so they must have cared. They wanted me to tell you to get well soon, so… get well soon. Wake up soon. Please. I can’t lose you too – as selfish as that is. I'm so sorry, Mrs Jones. Truly, I am.

(NATASHA exits.)


"Sandra Jones was my best friend," She said,
To no one in particular.
"She lit up my world," She tried again,
"No - that's a lie," She sighed. Again.

"Sandra Jones was grumpy a lot,
But I put up with her because
When she wasn't being a cow
She was everything that was right.

"Sandra Jones was my favourite person
And I know a lot of people don't see it
But I- I thought she was wonderful!"
And that was her confession.

"I think I might even have loved her!"
The word tumble out into the empty church
And she, the eulogizer kept blurting
Secrets to those who couldn't have known her.

"Sandra Jones was, to all who knew her,"
A good start. Keep going.
"Rude, sometimes. But loyal, and protective."
Almost blew it. Almost finished.

"Sandra Jones was my best friend," She said
Again, as if that was the end of the matter.

Sandra Jones' Mother Is Awake

“What can you remember about waking, Mrs Jones?”
“I remember my eyelids cracking open, and the light flooding in… I can remember thinking-” (No, I don’t want to be here. This isn’t what I want.)
“What can you remember thinking?”
“I can’t, now.” (Lies. Of course I can. Why would I tell you? You’ve never known this like I have.) “And how are you feeling now?”
“I’m alive, I suppose.” (I’m alive. I don’t want to be. Sandra was all I had. I just want to be with her.) “You say it like being alive is a bad thing, Mrs Jones.”
“You say it like it isn’t, Doctor.”
“That’s because it isn’t. We both have everything to live for.”
“What do I have to live for?” (She’s shifting awkwardly. This won’t be good.)
“Well, lots of things. Show life it can’t have you both just yet. Keep fighting. Make it so she didn’t die in vain. Fight so others will see living as an option.” (That is the most pretentious bullshit I have ever heard in my life, but… she might be onto something.) “I’ll have a think about it, Doctor.” (Like there’s anything else for me to do in here.) “Until next week, Mrs Jones.”

You Told Me, Sandra Jones

She seemed uneasy as she walked through the door, glancing behind her as if to make sure she wasn’t followed. I knew this because this was how she always entered my office – and she hadn’t told anyone she was seeing me. “Hello Sandra,” I began, “How are you feeling?”
“Tired.” She told me. At least she was being honest. “I want to throw myself off that cliff.”
“Please don’t.” I said. “I’ll write you a new prescription after we’ve spoken.” The drugs I was giving her weren’t that strong, but I didn’t know how well she had hidden her feelings. “Okay.”
“So, what has happened since last week?”
“My diary. I’ve been writing in my diary. Here.” She thrust a weighty notebook at me, filled with scraps of drawings and scribbled lines.”
“No, Sandra Jones.” I said. “What has happened? I don’t want to hear it from your diary, although I will read it. I want to hear it from you.”
“Well…” She began, “On Monday my biology teacher gave us a shitload of homework-” She paused, “Is it okay to swear?” I nodded. “Anyway she gave us so much homework. For Wednesday of all things!”
“Did you complete it?” She frowned.
“No… I got detention Wednesday lunchtime. Then I had maths and I’ve been finding it really difficult recently and I’m not entirely sure I want to do medicine anymore and…” She babbled on for a few minutes, finishing with, “I’m just not happy with my life anymore. I need to do something else.”

“What did you have in mind?” I asked, pulling a piece of paper and scribbling down contact details for a friend of mine in careers advice. “I don’t know…” She muttered. I flicked through her diary quickly, searching for inspiration. “What about art, Sandra Jones? There’s an awful lot of doodling in here…”
“No!” She shook her head violently, “Mum would never!” And therein lies our problem, I thought, you’re scared. “Well I’ll tell you a secret Sandra Jones. My mum never wanted me to be a psychiatrist. Said it was an easy job, listening to people. But I did it. So can you.”
“No.” She said, “I can’t do art because I don’t want to do art because I don’t want to be here!”

And thus our session ended. The time ran out. She ran out.

And then she threw herself off that bloody cliff.

Sandra Jones Is Dead

Imogen Mills