Perfect.
It's like listening to a piece of music backwards. Every note cuts into my mind like glass and the wound it leaves stings like everything and nothing.
Having your life flash before your eyes before you die is not stupid phrase, or a cliche, or anything like that. It happens. And I'm here to tell you about it.
This music piece, playing, unravelling, picking itself apart, is your cherished moments. I cannot begin to describe it. It is so perfect, the melody, plucked from waiting strings or gently caressed from patient keys. Perfect, beautiful, terrifying, huge, brave, horrible. Painful. Pain.
Hearing orchestrated music backwards is a breathtaking thing. Each note, each perfect, confident note, is played, and then vanishes into the arms of the awaiting backwards-tune that is played after. I mourn for each and every one. I know how they feel. They are never to be heard again.
My life was nothing special. A few crime scenes, violins, brothers. But then the music came together and formed my most perfect moments.
The tears came, the invisible, inevitable tears that choked me when I tried to breathe.
It was all John.
All of it. There were snippets of he and I laughing together, running together, dinners together, countless arguments, and that time when we held hands whilst handcuffed. All perfect. And it hurt. It hurt so much. But it was perfect.
Perhaps the word perfect is overused in this description. I am partly here to tell you that it is. Because there is no other word to describe this to you. I'm sorry. But perfect is all he'll ever be to me, and all he ever was.
And then I faded. Never a chance to say goodbye properly, properly. To say what I mean. To say it by accident, which makes it true. Never a chance. Fading, fading...
Perfect. All I saw was the man I loved, and I would never have had it any other way.
I only wish he'd hurry up and join me soon, so I can hold him again, and tell him all of this.
I'm so very, very cold. And it's perfect.