I just finished reading Looking for Alaska this morning on the bus ride to school. By far, it has been one of the best books I have ever read. No book has ever made me feel so much like crying. John Green is a master at realism, making his story life on playback in the mind. This is just a short burst of thoughts on what might have gone on while the four Barn Night friends were left in the wake of tragedy. What happens in the darkness can't be considered living...but at least they still exist.
Bella
We were all sort of lost after Alaska died. None of us knew how to live at Culver Creek without her bubbling laughter or loud comments or simply her radiant presence. The Colonel wouldn't really talk but then again, neither would I. When we did get into conversation, it usually ended with me saying "Fine" multiple times. We ignored Takumi and Lara, mostly because we couldn't handle their stares. They just didn't know our guilt and the struggles we were going through. They didn't know how personal this was, how we had let Alaska drive off when she was drunk. Neither of us really slept, even after the Colonel had walked off his initial daze.
I think it started slowly but we began to grow closer, the Colonel and I. Sometimes tragedy brings people together and when only one other person (a person who shares a room with you, nonetheless) is able to truly understand your pain, you can't help but feel for them. Occasionally I would lie in bed, unable to sleep, and just listened to his heavy breathing from the upper bunk. Even more occasionally, that breathing would be quiet sobs that he was obviously trying to control. On those nights, I would cry too.
Eventually it became an unspoken rule between us. Whatever happened in Room 43 was never to leave. It was a vow made from tears and sweat-stained sheets. Sometimes, you just needed consolation and the Colonel and I only had each other to turn to. We weren't alone though. Lara had been left without Alaska and then without me to talk to. Katie could be…interesting but she didn't know all of the things that we did. Takumi kept her company, even into the late hours of the night. We were all careful. The Eagle might not have permitted what happened in Takumi's room but he wouldn't even accept what went on in our room.
I grew accustomed to the taste of Ambrosia and the taste of the Colonel's flesh. He had a muskier, fuller flavor than Alaska or Lara but in my mind, physical pleasure was all the same. It was living from one high to the next, whether we were out trying to find a new place to smoke, inside digging for fake IDs to get alcohol from Coosa, or on my bed just trying to forget. We didn't need to enjoy anything; we just needed to exist, to keep breathing. I could sometimes hear Takumi and Lara talking as they walked past Room 43. They used hushed whispers, like they were speaking some big secret. I knew it was because they were mad at our self-imposed exile and they didn't know how to get us to wake. I also knew it was because they didn't want people to know how hot their own skin could get.
I had snuck past Takumi's room in the darkness enough times to catch the sounds. The Colonel and I had hidden Alaska's condoms before her aunt cleaned her room out. I was sure that some of them must have slipped into Takumi's hands. They were perhaps even worse than the Colonel and I. We were slightly ashamed of our actions and they were just subsistence-living. We were quiet and careful. Takumi and Lara would lose control in the black of night. All of the pain and suffering they shared evaporated between rushed thrusts and panting breaths. They were unstoppable.
But in the morning, in the morning we were all back to the ritual humdrum of daily living. We never spoke, not any of us, about what we did at night. It was like ratting on someone…you just didn't do it.
That's how it went for what seemed like an eternity. The Colonel and I, Takumi and Lara, hidden in our rooms trying to pretend everything was fine. Life slides by. Time flows ever on. And Alaska is dead.