'Goodbye is just another word'

"I'm sorry" she says but they are hollow words and sorry doesn't make it right or fair "Do you have anyone we can contact? Anyone at all?"

There isn't anyone, she knows it and he knows it but he shakes his head anyway, plunging his hands into his pockets to stop them from grabbing her and shaking her, even though it isn't her fault, even though she is just the barer of bad news.

The hospital smells like disinfectant and death and he hates it, but then he always hated hospitals, hospitals equal sickness, injury, disease and death. He will never forget this hospital for sure because it carries the stench of death so strongly he believes that he will be scrubbing out of his pores and off his skin for months to come.

"Do you want to see him?" her voice again, insistent, soft "Before we….." 'Before you what?' He wants to ask 'Before you call the undertaker, the funeral home, the mortician'. He nods his head, yes, he does want to see him, he wants to see him because after today he will never see him again.

He looks as if he is sleeping, eyes closed, long lashes resting on high cheekbones, laughing mouth pursed shut. There are no injuries, there is no blood. His hands are curved across his chest and he is still wearing the blue shirt, his favourite. He can't be dead, there must be some mistake. Knees buckle then and the body betrays "Do you want to sit down?" she says.

He sits on the chair beside his brother's body and he weeps. There is no hiding emotion now, no holding back. What's the point? There is no one to hide emotion from, no one to hold back for. The one thing that made his life worth living, the one thing left that gave him purpose is laying on the bed in front of him and there is no reason to go on living anymore, nothing to keep going for.

There is a box, a few personal possessions for him to take home. Home – he laughs a little at that because he has no home – just a motel room somewhere close, a motel room with two queen sized beds, a motel room for two large people. He laughs, with no humour, how he is going to rattle around that motel room now.

"You know" she touches his hand as he is leaving, her eyes kind "He had a good life – a good long life – to go like that – a heart attack at his age – it was quick and he didn't suffer any pain" he nods in agreement, wondering if he should tell her that their life was forever painful, but he decides against it and he settles on squeezing her hand instead, whispering a soft goodbye and adding a little 'See you later'.

Maybe she's right. Who would have thought that they would live to such a ripe old age? Who would have thought that they would make it through all the trials and tribulations, catch all the curve balls, see their special birthdays come and go? He smiles through salt tears and hobbles uncomfortably towards the rusty black car that has survived it all with them. It won't be tonight he thinks, but sometime soon, and then they can be together again, like they were always meant to be.

Fin