5.31.1
Your body made such an awkward sound as it hit the floor, a resonating thunk heard clear through the apartment. The sound was deafening to me, echoing in my head as my mind replayed the scene that had occurred before me.
It had all happened to fast for me to understand as it was happening, but after an expectant moment, I began to recollect just what had gone wrong with your threat.
I never thought you were serious in your suicidal thoughts, never imagined you would do it. How could you be strong enough to pull a trigger aimed for your own head when you cannot even exit your self-detonating Gundam without feeling?
How could you leave me alone like this, you, of all people? You were supposed to be the kind one, damnit. I was supposed to be the one to die.
I suppose, in a way, that your death was justified in itself. Who would want to know they are slowly dying, after all? That after surviving a war and its aftershocks, one was destined to die from a foreign and untreatable invader just as life was supposed to begin again?
I can understand your reasoning, but why did you have to die and leave me here alone without you?
I imagine that you did not want me to feel your pain as you lay in a hospital bed, the wires connecting to more parts of your body than I knew existed. Perhaps you did not want sympathy cards full of glitter and good wishes, wishes that would not come true no matter how many cards were stuffed into a mailbox.
Perhaps you wanted me to remember you as you were--young, vibrant, lovely, among other things-- than weak and sickly, as you would have been at the hospital.
I understand you completely...I just cannot understand the justice of this life. We were supposed to be happy and live in the freedom we had fought so very hard for.
We should have had a chance at the life we gave to so many others who take it for granted. We gave so much away, and all we now receive is hurt in a paint bucket-- the cheap paint that fades and peels, revealing the true nature of our pain and suffering.
There is no justice here, or on the hardwood floor on which you now lie. Even that damned floor mocks me, for it is closer to you than I am.
I never told you how much you meant to me, and now it is too late to matter much. For all it's worth, I love you and I always will.
Maybe you are flying, spiraling above my head with your angel wings, raining feather light kisses on my hair and cheeks. Or maybe you are running around me in circles with little red horns and a tail to enhance your innocent appearance.
Or maybe you are lying on my kitchen floor, the gun still smoking and the blood from your decision still dripping onto the ground. Innocent, convolute blood that will soon be drying into deep crimson puddles of wasted life. Life that otherwise would have ended equally futile and dark.
I take a deep breath and finally leave my asylum of molten shock to kneel at your side. I can still smell the gunpowder, hear the thunder bolt of sudden death resulting from your choice.
Up close to you, I can see the individual alabastrine strands of hair, each tipped with a dash of sanguine blood.
"You're stupid, Quatre, do you hear me? So damn stupid..."
A shrill scream echoes around me, much like that gunshot. A moment after, I realize the phone is ringing. Once, twice, three times. A fourth scream, then silence. Kinda like you, Quat. You scream for a while, and then you stop.
Maybe I should end it too, just follow in suit, pick up the gun, and end it. Besides, I have nothing left to live for. No war to fight in, no lives to be important in, no friends left to spend time with and worry over.
And when the police arrive, they would classify this case as a double suicide, nothing more. Two crazy teenagers on a killing spree, quite possibly connected to some cult, or ritual, or whatnot, and never another thought.
So ends another worthless chapter in the book of life.
...right?
Perhaps death is not the answer. But even if I run away from this horrible place, it won't be long before the police catch up with me, for being at the scene of the crime, possibly seeing or even committing the crime.
They would think I had killed my best friend, motive or no motive, evidence or no evidence. And perhaps, I had actually been the one to kill him.
I still believe that I should have been the one to die.
Your body made such an awkward sound as it hit the floor, a resonating thunk heard clear through the apartment. The sound was deafening to me, echoing in my head as my mind replayed the scene that had occurred before me.
It had all happened to fast for me to understand as it was happening, but after an expectant moment, I began to recollect just what had gone wrong with your threat.
I never thought you were serious in your suicidal thoughts, never imagined you would do it. How could you be strong enough to pull a trigger aimed for your own head when you cannot even exit your self-detonating Gundam without feeling?
How could you leave me alone like this, you, of all people? You were supposed to be the kind one, damnit. I was supposed to be the one to die.
I suppose, in a way, that your death was justified in itself. Who would want to know they are slowly dying, after all? That after surviving a war and its aftershocks, one was destined to die from a foreign and untreatable invader just as life was supposed to begin again?
I can understand your reasoning, but why did you have to die and leave me here alone without you?
I imagine that you did not want me to feel your pain as you lay in a hospital bed, the wires connecting to more parts of your body than I knew existed. Perhaps you did not want sympathy cards full of glitter and good wishes, wishes that would not come true no matter how many cards were stuffed into a mailbox.
Perhaps you wanted me to remember you as you were--young, vibrant, lovely, among other things-- than weak and sickly, as you would have been at the hospital.
I understand you completely...I just cannot understand the justice of this life. We were supposed to be happy and live in the freedom we had fought so very hard for.
We should have had a chance at the life we gave to so many others who take it for granted. We gave so much away, and all we now receive is hurt in a paint bucket-- the cheap paint that fades and peels, revealing the true nature of our pain and suffering.
There is no justice here, or on the hardwood floor on which you now lie. Even that damned floor mocks me, for it is closer to you than I am.
I never told you how much you meant to me, and now it is too late to matter much. For all it's worth, I love you and I always will.
Maybe you are flying, spiraling above my head with your angel wings, raining feather light kisses on my hair and cheeks. Or maybe you are running around me in circles with little red horns and a tail to enhance your innocent appearance.
Or maybe you are lying on my kitchen floor, the gun still smoking and the blood from your decision still dripping onto the ground. Innocent, convolute blood that will soon be drying into deep crimson puddles of wasted life. Life that otherwise would have ended equally futile and dark.
I take a deep breath and finally leave my asylum of molten shock to kneel at your side. I can still smell the gunpowder, hear the thunder bolt of sudden death resulting from your choice.
Up close to you, I can see the individual alabastrine strands of hair, each tipped with a dash of sanguine blood.
"You're stupid, Quatre, do you hear me? So damn stupid..."
A shrill scream echoes around me, much like that gunshot. A moment after, I realize the phone is ringing. Once, twice, three times. A fourth scream, then silence. Kinda like you, Quat. You scream for a while, and then you stop.
Maybe I should end it too, just follow in suit, pick up the gun, and end it. Besides, I have nothing left to live for. No war to fight in, no lives to be important in, no friends left to spend time with and worry over.
And when the police arrive, they would classify this case as a double suicide, nothing more. Two crazy teenagers on a killing spree, quite possibly connected to some cult, or ritual, or whatnot, and never another thought.
So ends another worthless chapter in the book of life.
...right?
Perhaps death is not the answer. But even if I run away from this horrible place, it won't be long before the police catch up with me, for being at the scene of the crime, possibly seeing or even committing the crime.
They would think I had killed my best friend, motive or no motive, evidence or no evidence. And perhaps, I had actually been the one to kill him.
I still believe that I should have been the one to die.