I apologize for paraphrasing dialogue. I wasn't there.
The first friend made a comment about highschool ending, how they couldn't believe it was approaching so fast.
Their companion let out a small laugh, nodding along with what they said.
They agreed. It was weird how they would soon be graduates. Well, soon is a relative term— sooner than before.
Silence falls between them. Silence fell between them a lot, but it was a natural silence, a forgiving silence, a silence that was a testament to the years together and their strong friendship. They've been able to sit in each other's company in silence for hours. Being there was enough.
This silence was nothing like that. It was suffocating.
…
The first friend asked if the other would join them in getting frozen yogurt.
Their companion accepted.
And just as quick as it appeared, it was gone. They went on like they always did— good friends. Romping around THE MALL like it was their own kingdom, eating their frozen yogurt as if it was made of pure gold.
It was only as the first friend threw their yogurt cup into a nearby trash can that a familiar far away stare graced their face again. Like there was some unreadable, unknowable emotion right behind their eyes, and if only you could push past their skin you would understand.
Before the second friend could interrogate, reassure, anything— the first friend speaks up.
They ask if they could tell the other something.
It stops the second friend in their tracks for a second.
Anything, the other friend assures.
The first friend added that they would like to do so in private.
They both knew exactly where that meant. The mall had a corner that was rarely visited, in an old wing still waiting to be remodeled, full of closing stores and floors that were begging to be sweeped. There was one closed store in specific where it was easy to get behind the gate that was supposed to block it's entrance and then, and only then, if you spoke quiet enough, you would be completely alone.
They sat down behind the counter of this dilapidated store, and for a second, that silence returned. Not that hostile one, but a compassionate one. The second friend could tell something was wrong, and only wanted to be there for comfort. They didn't want to force whatever this information was out, either. So for those seconds, they just simply waited.
—
"I want this," he said. "I want this more than anything. You know that. There's— there's nothing for me now. This is the only thing that'll bring me solace. Please. You don't know how much I want— need this."
There isn't enough memory space for all of it. The supplies — gathering the supplies. The painkillers, the morphine, the plastic sheets — just in case— everything. Every last contingency thought of.
"I don't want to get worse. I'm bad enough as is. I just want it to end, right here, right at this moment in time. That way, I'll have gone out on a good note. I'll have gone out thinking that it was good as it could have gotten before it just got worse and worse with every day."
The day itself comes and goes in their memory. Sometimes they can recall it all with thorough detail, and then others they won't even remember it happening. The empty theatre. The desolate backstage. The last longing looks. The feeling of life leaving his body. The taste in their mouth. The disgusting satisfaction.
"You'll always have me, you know. As a memory. As a perfect memory, like this. I won't ever betray you, because I'll always be perfect in your mind. You know that. Now help me with this, will you?"
And then the acting, the afterwards. Making sure to erase all and any outside involvement, making it look perfect, just the way he wanted. Pretending shock. Feigning sadness. And then, at some point, moving on. He was right. The only thing left of him was a perfect memory, blemished only by his last weeks. And even then— that sweet taste left behind was enough to chalk it up to an even sum.
—-
Tears betrayed them as they told the story.
Despite the oddity of the story, their friend could still empathize and understand— as if they were just the correct flavor of fucked up to truly still see a friend there after that morbid display.
The storyteller was pulled into a hug, and then a promise was made: they would be protected from ever feeling that sort of way again. Their companion would make sure of it.
—-
Some time later, but not much, a group of six stands at the bottom of the stairs. You are among them.
We're going to help you, together. Everyone is.
When you reach for your shoes, your shoes will be there.
When you walk through a doorway, the door will be open.
Where you go, the floor will continue under your feet.
Every move you make, will be made valid.
Everything you see will become real.
Everything you say will become the truth.
Your turn.
Walk up the stairs.