"Dead" was a cold, impersonal word. It was the word you would hear on the news in the side of your awareness, it was the word you skimmed over in the paper or on the web. It was an ordinary word used for nothing more than to describe a common state of being… It was average. It was meaningless to you.
So how could you possibly use it to describe the person you love? How could you use it to describe someone who was so extraordinary, so uncommon, so above-average, and meant everything in the world?
You can't.
But unfortunately, it's unavoidable.
My name is Arthur Kirkland, and I know the pain of wincing as the syllable leaves your mouth, and the ache that follows. I know the desperation that compels you to explain who they were, to put a story to the rigid word. I know what it's like to have lost your significant other.
July fourth. His birthday. The birthday of the country he loved. Today's date.
Dull moonlight struggled to light my room when I switched off the antique lamp on my bedside table. The clock on my laptop read 12:00 just before I shut it, and a scene from exactly one year ago flashed before tear-ridden eyes. We were here, in this same bed, in this same moment. Only now, darkness enveloped me and the once-warm blanket pulled up around me was too cold.
"You sure you don't want any, babe? I don't know why you hate it so much, Iced tea's never done anything wrong."
His smile was always just as bright as the sun, and the harsh reality that I faced made me ache deep inside.
I sighed. "Very well, if it will get you to belt up about it, I just might have a sip." I looked down at the watch around my wrist. "Besides, it is your birthday."
Alfred beamed from where he was snuggled up around me, pulling me even closer when I noted the hour. I could only assume that he had his eyes on my watch as well.
"Oh! Would you look at that, it is." I reached over to the bedside table where his tall glass of tea was sitting and brought it to my lips. The cold liquid was sweet and not unpleasant, but something about the American concoction didn't quite sit right with me. The ice bumped against my lip when I drank it, making the whole experience rather unpleasant.
I placed the cup back where it came from. "It's alright, I suppose."
"Dude, are you kidding me? It's like, one of my favorite drinks! Right next to coke!"
I hummed, unable to tell him that I wasn't a big coke fan, either. "Yes, I know Alfred. You get it every time we go out." I sighed again. "Happy birthday, you git."
Holding back tears became harder and harder with every memory that came to mind. The last fourth of July had been one of the greater nights of my life, and right now all I wanted to do was drink alcohol and wish that I had someone who could convince me that my life was worth keeping.
If it meant being with Alfred, I would do anything.
No, don't think like that, it's not what he wanted for you.
I tugged on my blanket, tears blurring what would have been my vision, had the room not been pitch black. Bathing in sick nostalgia, I started to cry.
A tear rolled down the side of my face, followed by another, and another.
They didn't stop, and I was losing my mind.
When I felt a hand touch my face gently, a soft caress for such rough fingers, I wasn't even surprised. The touch was unmistakable, and the voice in my ear chased away all doubts.
"Shshshsh, don't cry Artie, please don't cry."
The phantom voice invading my awareness only made my tears fall harder and the shutter in my breath stronger as I struggled to take in air.
If my mind was truly slipping, then it wouldn't be long before my body followed suit. I had mixed emotions about leaving the world the same way Alfred did, slowly, and with hardly a sign that I needed help.
I clutched my thick blanket in my balled fist, holding onto it like Alfred hung on to life until the very last moments. Maybe if I squeezed hard enough, I could join him somehow.
"Art, stop this. It's not your time yet."
Oh Alfred, what could you possibly know about that?
"And are you going to tell me that it was yours?" My quiet words were spoken shakily. I didn't get a response. All I got was complete silence, save for the labored rhythms of my sobs. It was sickeningly similar to the last time I spoke with Alfred.
I'd never felt so alone, even as I felt the bed move beside me and an arm drape lovingly over my small, shaking body.
A hollow kiss on my forehead.
A hoarse whisper barely managed through quiet sobs.
"Happy birthday, you git."
A/N: A short drabble to explain what I'm having to deal with right now. I feel so much better after writing it down. Thanks, . The fourth of July was mine's birthday, too, unluckily for me. It really puts a damper on the whole "proud to be an American" ordeal that comes with this holiday, and It might just ruin it for me for the rest of my life. Okay, so that might be an underexageration.
In loving memory, thank you.