As if to complement your mood, it's raining buckets outside, complete with occasional rumbling as thunder rolls across the dark clouds. You don't see this, of course, as your curtains are drawn and you're faced away from the window, and you can't really see much of anything because your vision is very blurry and very watery, and you're not sure you'd be able to see straight even if your eyes were dry. You can hear it, though. And despite the fact that it's literally always raining here, you feel, with a sort of irrational confidence, that the sky is crying because you are miserable.
You hug your knees to your chest and stifle your sobs the best you can, because if they become louder than the weather then your dad might hear and then he'll come in and want to talk and god, you just can't do that. You're not entirely sure why you're upset, yourself. Sure, you can sort of understand it, but you've never been this sad before. Not when your dad got you guys tickets to meet the original actors from the classic Ghostbusters but had to cancel when you got a 103 degree fever. Not when dad shouted at you when you'd pressed him after a long day and half a night of work about your mother because your teacher wouldn't let you turn in a half empty family tree. Not when you saw your dad lying in a pool of his own blood, looking so very, very dead.
Except it sort of was that last thing, even if not directly. You guys had started the end of the world, played the game, and then scratched the universe. You woke up on April 14th, 2009, with what felt suspiciously like the hangover you got after getting into the wrong cabinet at Rose's house when you went over when you were twelve.
And then you never talked about it again. You tried to convince yourself that the others wanted to talk about it, and maybe they were and were just leaving you out for some reason and eventually they would let you in, just as long as you asked them at the right time. But your dad didn't believe you when you told him about the game, and he'd just patted you lovingly on the head. And after a while, with every time you brought it up his responses evolved more and more from full of good humor to full of concern. Rose would change the subject is you tried with her. Jade would pretend to fall asleep, even though you knew that wasn't a thing anymore.
And so you'd tried to talk about it with Dave. And he'd actually acknowledged it. It was super brief too, but without him, you'd almost begun to believe that you were actually off your rocker.
EB: but did it really not happen? am I crazy?
TG: uh
TG: listen
TG: youre not crazy okay
TG: but lets talk about this another time
TG: im just not up for it now
TG: sorry
And so you waited. You went to the therapist sessions your dad forced you into after you were still bringing it up casually after a year, and you pretended you'd made it up and got out of the sessions by the next. You let your conversations with Rose, Jade, and Dave stay light—or at least, nothing darker than a heartbreaker or getting yelled at or any other normal teenage stuff.
And then this year, today in fact, you'd brought it back up. And it had gone terrible.
ectoBiologist [EB] begun pestering turntechGodhead [TG]
EB: hey dave!
TG: hey sup man
TG: oh btw. happy bday
TG: i sent you something
TG: should get to your place by tonight
EB: ;D aw you didn't have to!
TG: well i did so try to deal okay
TG: presents are really hard to take like
TG: wow
TG: i'm not sure how i've gotten through 16 years of them
TG: sometimes twice a year
TG: like Christmas
TG: when bro doesn't forget
TG: it's pretty hard man
TG: but if i can do it you've got a shot
TG: total faith in you bro
EB: hehe :B
EB: …
TG: sup
TG: spit it out
TG: this is your day bro
TG: go all out
TG: you wanna tell me you want a piece of this fine ass
TG: i'm all yours
EB: omg no, dave!
EB: i, uh.
EB: i kinda wanted to talk about what happened…y'know.
EB: 3 years ago.
TG: …
TG: um.
EB: well, you did promise you would eventually! i know you said you weren't ready back then but i can't wait forever, y'know?
TG: yeah i guess…
EB: dave, sorry. but you know i still have nightmares? like, i see my dad dead. i see thousands of you, dead. i feel myself, dead. and i don't like it. i like being the optimistic person you all think I am! and i think for the most part I am! but I really need to talk about this and not with a old guy named leonard who's getting thirty dollars an hour to tell me i'm nuts!
TG: look
TG: i get it okay
TG: sburb was…
TG: can't you talk to lalonde
EB: uh…
EB: rose doesn't want to talk about it.
TG: well, neither do i!
EB: …
EB: oh.
EB: sorry then.
ectoBiologist [EB] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG]
TG: oh god john
TG: look, i didn't mean it
TG: striders say stupid stuff okay
TG: guess i inherited that from bro
TG: or assimilated it. nurture beats nature all the way
TG: especially when nature is some trippy green gel your internet friend made you out of
TG: …
TG: are you still there
TG: john goddammit come back
TG: …
TG: i need to go
TG: i am sorry though
TG: striders honor
TG: you can get nothing higher
TG: …
TG: look out for my letter okay
TG: sorry
TG: happy birthday again, if you're reading this
turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering ectoBiologist [EB]
This shouldn't be affecting you more than the event itself. Sure, you want to talk about what happened, but you didn't feel this bad when it happened. Because then you had your friends, maybe? The world was ending, but your friends were there to help you as much as they could and vice versa and you weren't all by yourself when these great and terrible things happened, like you are now, and you could talk about what happened then.
You hear a knocking at your door, and you sit up, immediately stopping any audible hints as to how much you'd just been crying and praying that you weren't heard. You think the person on the other side is expecting you to say something first, but when you don't, he does.
"John?" your father asks. You make a noncommittal noise, trying not to reveal how sad your voice sounds—for some reason, you're sure if you utter a word he'll be able to tell.
"Can I come in?" he asks. You try to make your noise come out as a negative. He pauses.
"Alright. There's some mail for you here, son. I'll leave it outside your door." You exhale, relieved that he didn't hear your crying. You hear a slight shuffling of papers, and his footsteps begin to fade away. Then he stops, and you hear his voice again, much quieter this time, and you don't think it's just the distance.
"You can always to talk to me, if you want." Then you think you hear him walk back into the kitchen.
So maybe he did hear you, after all.
But it doesn't matter, you think, after all you did try talking to him and he sent you to a shrink. No, you really couldn't talk to him.
You cautiously make your way to your door, and open it a crack. You look left and right warily, but it seems your father truly has left you to your own devices, so you grab the red envelope you find lying at your feet and close the door.
You open up the envelope and pull out a fairly smooth and clean piece of paper—a first, assuming this is Dave Strider's. Then you begin to read.
My dearest John Egbert:
JK man and i think even you know it. Like, i thought id open up with something that sounds more like me so you dont freak out or anything like no, bro isnt making me write this at gunpoint or anything. But yeah, unless you secretly want to suck my dick really bad (although thats understandable, legions of men and women around the world, even myself, sympathize), you're not my "dearest". You are my best friend though.
Its also because i didnt want to start this off with "do you remember April 13th, 2009?" because i know you do and it also seems like a shitty way to start a sentence. But it's also what this is about.
This present isnt so much about here and now, but its a promise to the future. Look, i think i know what you're feeling: i saw bro die too, remember? And rose saw her mom, and jade got some of the worst of it even though she won't admit it, and basically sburb was just one big gargatuan pile of assfuckery. It literally blowed so hard the world blowing champion wouldnt have a shot should they want to compete. It's hard, and i know you want to talk about it, but jade, me, and even psychiatrist lalonde want to forget. I do get what you want, though.
I know you want some closure, and i can't give it to you now. Until i can talk about it without making my head feel fucked up, i can't. I'm sorry, i'm really sorry. But I promise, one day i will be ready, and well talk then.
Your best bro,
Dave Strider
You stare at the letter, and a million thoughts flood your head. He's not ready? Will he ever be ready? Do the others understand how much this is crushing you? How much it's hurting you? How the nightmares come every night, without fail?
And you're sure the answer is no. because if it was yes, this letter wouldn't have been written. If it was yes, then they wouldn't have shut you down every time you brought it up. You are the only one weak enough to not be able to let it go.
You stand up on shaky feet.
You can't do this any more.
At six o' clock, Mr. Egbert knocks on John's door, but gets no response. An eyebrow is raised; John is normally fairly eager to partake in school. He lets him be, however.
At seven o' clock, Mr. Egbert decides to just let John skip first period. It was his birthday the day before, after all.
At eight o' clock Mr. Egbert knocks again, beginning to think this whole thing is becoming a little ridiculous.
At nine o' clock, Mr. Egbert suddenly remembers the night before, and is suddenly very afraid for his son. He knocks again and this time tries to turn the handle of the door, but he can't because it's locked from the inside and so he shoulders the door until it falls and when he sees the unmoving body he calls 9-1-1 with one trembling hand, the other stroking his son's hair.
At ten o' clock, John Egbert is pronounced legally dead at the hospital. His father is not there to hear it, however, because he is busy in his room, clutching a red envelope, now turned a darker shade by silent tears. The ink on the envelope is smudged, but was read before it became illegible: I'm sorry I couldn't talk about it.