I remember the first time we met, on the train that would take me from the outskirts of England to the bustling city of London, where I worked.
That day you had bravely sat next to me in my seat, asked my name and where I was going.
I decided to humor you, giving you a short answer.
"Arthur Kirkland, London." You didn't actually fess up your own name until I was almost to my stop; coincidentally and dreadfully, it was your stop too.
I can't remember where you worked, consequent to your constant babbling, I tuned you out.
"I really hate bankers, and books, and-"
"You hate bankers?" I cut you off, suddenly interesting in your words.
"Well, yeah, in America they always screw with your money." You basically growled.
I just nodded in understanding, leaving out that I was, in fact, a banker myself.
So by the end of the dreadfully long trip I learned that your name was Alfred F. Jones and you had just recently moved here. You were an artist with a pen name of, 'American Hero,' you traveled a lot, moving to new countries after a year or two.
And thank God, you lived nowhere near my neighborhood.
Through the next week I learning close to everything about you: you were twenty three and came from Washington. Your favorite colors were red, white, and blue and you love summer just as much as winter.
I got caught in my banker secret on Friday, exactly eight days after you approached me.
I guess I expected you to walk in and see me at some point.
But you didn't talk to me for a few days after that. You still sat next to me, but for once you didn't speak. So for three days in a row an awkward tension sat between us. I didn't really mind, but the almost-betrayed look on your face and the uncharacteristically silent nature was a little unsettling.
Only a little.
I can't say I'm fond of you. But I can say I look forward to hearing your obnoxious voice every morning. Your stupid jokes surprisingly put me in a good mood. And your stories about America from when you were a child interested me. You even got me to tell you some of my stories about my terribly embarrassing 'punk' years as a teenager. You got a kick out of that, much to my demise.
"I bloody hate you." That's exactly what I said to you a month after we met. You were keeping me up to late hours of the night, and when my mind drifted away from work or the chore at hand, it drifted to you, Alfred.
What might you be doing right now? What latest art project are you working on? And then the one that always sets me into a rage; are you think of me right now?
"What?" You didn't register the sentence right away, but when you did your grin fell off your face, a straight line left in its place, the corners of your mouth twitching down ever so slightly.
"Oh." Was all you could say, sadness pooling into your eyes and killing the bright sparkle.
You looked away with a full blown frown and I suddenly felt guilty for saying anything at all. But it was true, you frustrated me to no end, so i just looked straight ahead for the rest of the train ride.
I felt even more guilty the next morning; you sat behind me instead of beside me, you avoided my hopeful stare and shoved your hands in your pockets, pursing your lips.
I don't regret a lot of things in life; only not getting my doctors degree and letting my brother run away from home. But now that I'm older I do admit it: I regret doing that to you.
It didn't take too long for you to come back, though, if you consider five days short.
But it gave me time to think. Maybe too much time. Like, why it put me in a sad mood that you avoided me, why I missed your company.
Well, I knew. But I didn't want to admit it.
When you did come back, you smile a sincere, sweet smile.
"Alfred, look I'm so-" I gulped out an apology.
"Arthur, don't worry, dude, it's fine." Apparently you were fine without one.
You started coming to have lunch with me at work. I was fine with it, I usually ate lunch alone anyways. The only thing that I wasn't okay with was the atrocious food you ate. I didn't even know they sold McDonalds anywhere in England.
Do you remember Francis, Alfred? The bloody frog would never stop pestering me after you would leave, talking about how we were in 'love.'
I could never deny it.
I accidentally acted about two months into our friendship. You boarded the train with a frown and distant eyes.
"Alfred? Is something wrong?" I rose an eyebrow as you plopped down in the seat lazily.
"Well, I dunno, maybe, yeah." You murmured, uncharacteristically quiet.
"I sorta messed one of my paintings up. I'm supposed to have it tomorrow." You stared straight at the back of the seat.
"Don't worry, it's just one." I reassured you, and you smiled, looking up at me. That bloody smile of yours.
"Yeah, you're right, Iggy." I grimaced at the nickname and you laughed,
"What did you do to it anyways?"
You fell through the painting, Alfred. I actually laughed when I heard that. I haven't laughed in a long time, Alfred.
And then my mind told my body to do something I would've only done in my teenage years.
I put my hand over yours.
You looked confused at first, but to my surprise and definite delight, you turned your hand around and intertwined our fingers.
The next day I planned to tell you. And it made me confident when you walked on with a bustling grin.
"Alfred, I have something to tell you." I murmured, my face heating up, much to my demise.
"Oh? What is it?" You sat down with a curious look, immediately intertwining our fingers.
"I-I really like you, Alfred." I gulped. I don't think you realized then, or, maybe, you did, because your smile widened, that my palms were sweating. A lot.
"I love you." I looked right at you, hesitantly, seeing your eyes sparkle and look right back at me.
And you were about to answer me when there was a loud bang and a high-pitched scream.
You jumped up, your eyes narrowed and your breath hitched, and you crouched down in front of the seat, out of site, pulling me down with you.
"Get down!" You hissed, pulling me close and wrapping your arms around me.
No one moved.
"I said get down!" You yelled, motioning with your hand for everybody to get down on the floor.
They finally moved.
You lay me down on my back and climbed over me, your legs on either side of my waist and your hands on either side of my head.
There were footsteps. You could barely hear them, but, with the absence of the trains' constant chatter and your distractions it seemed loud. Like the first time you had ever heard the sound, and your ears sucked it in-and savored it.
But it was a death sentence.
"What's going on here?!" I heard the train car door open, so I assumed it was one of the workers.
The only answer we got was a loud bang that I realized was a gun shot.
"A-Alfred you'll get killed!" You hushed me with your finger. I pushed at your shoulders for you to get off, turning desperate.
I saw the flash of fear and sadness in your eyes, even if for just a moment. My eyes flooded with tears, I was begging you, but just as I refused to cry, you refused to move.
The footsteps got slower, got louder, closer.
Your hands clenched by my face and your stare turned stern, determined.
I saw the tip of the gun appear from behind the seat from the aisle.
You leaned down and smiled, a sad smile, a smile telling me what you were planning, that you were sorry.
You kissed me softly, it only lasted a few seconds, but it held so much passion.
You moved your mouth to my ear
"I love you, too." You smiled, coming back to face me.
You didn't just have a brave confession. Your dark eyes and scrunched eyebrows proved it. You choked out your words.
It was a response, a confession.
But it was also a goodbye.
You were scared, Alfred. You were terrified.
I could see the whole gun now and my eyes widened.
You jumped up and lunged at the man, your hands fisted. The man's eyes widened.
Bang
Your hands fell to your sides and you just stood there
He pushed your stunned body back on me.
Bang
Blood pooled on the left side of my chest. But it wasn't mine. He shot the top of your shoulder.
Bang
I shut my eyes tight before I heard yelling and the sound of metal to metal.
At the sounds, my eyes sprang open.
Somebody had shot the shooter, and the gun was kicked away from him.
I acted fast, my body moved faster and smarter than my brain.
I climbed out from under you, lifted your shirt off, and put my hands firmly on your worst wound, your abdomen.
"A-Alfred!" I didn't realize I was crying until I say the clear liquid mix with your blood.
I haven't cried since my little brother left. You gave me a weak smile and looked into my eyes.
Your shirt said 'hero.'
You knew you would die, I saw it in your eyes. You were afraid. But that didn't stop you. I should have stopped you. You made me so happy, Alfred. So happy that I didn't care that I wasn't getting enough money at my job, or that my parents are dead, or that people hate me. I only cared about you, cared about our mornings on the train and our lunches together. I'll never forgive you for ruining that, for hurting me like that. But I'll never forget what you did for me and everybody on that train.
I never cried as hard as I did at your funeral, not even when my brother left. I had been alone for so long, I had been so hopeless. Setting a path downhill for myself. You changed that.
Maybe you were just an angel sent down to fix me, and then once I was fixed you had to leave.
But you changed me Alfred.
You did your job well, you bloody bastard.
So I'll leave this at your grave under that vase of roses I got you. I'm sure you'll read it.
I wished you had stayed longer, Alfred. I wished we had been able to do more together. I just hope that someday I can meet you again.
I love you, hero.