I stood, crouched in the corner behind the desk, the red night light reflecting off of my pasty white skin. I stayed silent, frozen, like a stone statue in a museum.
The clock read 12:01. It was morning now; he should be coming to bed.
I listened closely, ignoring the snoring coming from the next room. The window had been left open, so sneaking in had been easy. Breaking through the front door was a little more difficult.
I waited.
Finally I heard footsteps dragging up the hall towards his room. The door most often remained closed to hide the mess that cluttered the floor. Clothes, books, CD's, littered the black and white rug that covered the beige carpet. An electric guitar stood against the wall next to the floor to ceiling bookshelf that was stuffed with classic novels, horror stories and random poetry books.
I remembered every detail of this room; I could even spot when something had been moved a slight inch. It helped with a photographic memory and having been here for the past few nights, hidden in the corner waiting for him to come in a pass out on his bed where I had spent many nights with him preceding the accident.
I remained in the same position as I had for the past hour as he turned the doorknob and opened the door. It stuck for a second as it got caught on a pair of jeans that had fallen from the ever-filling laundry basket.
He walked in, carefully trying to avoid stepping on something sharp that might be concealed under the clothes. He wore no shirt and flannel pants; I could see how skinny he had become. His bones protruded from under his skin, making him look like a walking skeleton.
He collapsed on the bed and I waited until I knew he was a sleep.
I stood up from my crouched position and silently walked over to the edge of his bed. It was not very cold, but with the window open the breeze blew in, causing him to shiver. I reached for the blanket that was across the other side of the bed to cover him so he wouldn't be cold. Careful not to touch him, I laid the blanket over his emaciated body.
At that moment, I longed to touch him, to feel his warm skin under my fingers.
But I couldn't. If I did, it would be impossible for me to leave. This was my last day and I had to see him one last time.
I remember sitting in the room, watching him cry, not being able to go comfort him like I so desired. I couldn't do what he did for me, as I lay dying in the hospital bed. He never left my side while I was screaming in pain, not being able to answer him when he told me that it was going to be okay; that he would never leave me, like he promised.
We made a pact that we would never leave each other, for living apart was impossible.
I broke the pact when my heart stopped beating.
My parents cried, my family cried, my friends cried. My funeral was held a week after my death. The coffin was empty, but nobody knew. I sat through my own funeral, hidden in a tree, listening to what they had to say about me. It was all very comforting to know one last time that my family loved me.
He didn't say anything though. He didn't cry in public, with everyone there watching him.
He cried when he returned home, and I was there the whole time.
I watched him secretly, wincing as he hurt himself daily out of depression. He stopped eating, losing the will to live. The guitar that he loved now stood in the corner collecting dust, the books that he loved to read, now sat in the bookshelf, awaiting the day when someone will open their pages to read the stories that someone had written so long ago. The CDs that he constantly listened to over and over until he knew by heart hadn't been played in months.
The music fanatic, the happy soul that I loved more then anything in the world, now lay dying in sorrow, and I couldn't do anything, but leave.
It hurt.
It hurt more and more each day, for I knew that one day I would have to leave, to let it go, to move on and hope that he did too.
For the lust for blood that now consumed me for eternity was not safe for him to be around. So easily could I accidentally kill him, that I couldn't risk any contact. I couldn't be around him, for one day he would die, and I would continue existing.
It hurt that I couldn't touch him, speak to him, kiss him ever again, and that's why I had to leave.
I ran my hand over his skin without touching him, but able to feel the heat radiate off of his skin. I dropped my hand to my side. It was now one in the morning. It was time for me to leave. Maybe I would come back, one day. Maybe it would be easier for me in a few years to be able to see him, just to check, to make sure that he was okay.
Maybe.
"Goodbye love," I whispered. Then I turned, and without looking back I jumped out the window, but before I started to run, I swear I heard him say goodbye.
Then I started to run, run as far away as possible, without ever looking back.