Some day, you will look back and know exactly why it all had to happen the way it did, but right now that's not important.
Right now, you will focus simply on the disappearance of bruises and nightmares, on the intrinsically thorny art of healing.
Right now, you'll start to breathe again.
Right now you will drive home, and despite ten years worth of loss and decay, your friend will be by your side.
And that will be good enough.
And the drive will be quiet, and the car will be dark.
And you will glance over continuously, struck by the idea that if you take your eyes off of him, he will disappear forever.
And you try to imagine a forever devoid of him, without success.
And you try not to imagine a forever devoid of him.
You will help him to the door, and you will help him up the stairs.
He will begin to tremble.
You will hold him the harder, digging in the way you had with Macie, when she was a baby given to mysterious crying fits and you, ignorant even for twenty-three, knew nothing but to hold her tight through your own terror and uncertainty.
And you will be frightened but you will not lose your hold.
And he will sleep on the bed you've already made for him.
And a feeling like security will settle just under your skin.
And you will not sleep until much later in the night.
And then you will sleep soundly.
In the morning he will be up first, and you will find him in the bathroom.
He will be standing at the mirror, and you will meet his eyes in the reflection.
Scissors will still be in his shaking hand, and he will mumble in that way of his, something about change and need.
And you will nod along, watching as he finishes the job.
And you will make breakfast as he showers, trying to reconcile ten wasted years in the span of ten small minutes.
And he will limp into the kitchen.
And he will be unrecognizable.
And looking at him will be like a fistful of salt to the eyes.
And looking away from him will be even worse than that.
His troubled body, a flickering candle in a mound of melted wax.
His short hair.
His clean and cut up face.
His eyes, bruised beyond palpability, ready for the compost heap.
Him, a juddering top, nearing its final rotations.
You will tell him to sit before he falls.
He will flip you off without hesitation.
He will sit.
You will sit.
And you will see.
And the seeing will be the healing.
And there will be no need to hide.
And there will be no need for either darkness or light.
And for now, that will be good enough.