It can't help but run through his mind, as he sits in what was once his favorite place to be-what was once the best place to be; is there something wrong with me?
For surely there is something wrong with him? Surely there has to be something wrong with him if it has taken him until now to cry; until now to mourn the death-deaths of his friends-friend. He probably should have closed the door; but he couldn't bring himself to get up-to breathe without hurting.
It's all over now, is all he can think; everything is going to be okay now. Things have settled; and the tide will never rise on him again. And though he knows this, though he knows that finally-finally now that it is too late-finally now that he doesn't need it-finally-finally-finally-things are calm; collected; fixed, somehow he expects something to happen.
Somehow he can't really let himself believe that this is happening; that he is free; that things can rest where they left them-somehow he doesn't believe that he can let laying dogs lie. He doesn't feel free. He hasn't for years; and he doubts he ever will again.
"Ronnie!"
Ah; the calm before the storm.