When I last saw your face, it was in a picture of death, shown to me by the devil himself. You were missing, you see, for how many months I never lost track; five months, eleven days, three hours, and forty-five minutes.
We were on the phone, making light conversation, when suddenly your voice began to panic and asked me to come right away. I remained on the line and heard when you dropped the phone to grab your gun and heard the shots fired and the angry voices yelling. I prayed that you were uninjured and was relieved to hear the sound of your voice once more only to have it cut off by your captors.
When I arrived at your apartment, it was a mess, blood splattered on the floor and furniture turned over. Losing my cool, I ran outside, hoping that maybe you were still outside, only to find that the streets were as black as night.
And now five months, eleven days, three hours, and fifty minutes later, the image of your lifeless face is still in my head, shown to me by a man we both despise. He came knocking at my door tonight and was surprised to see my tired figure. Without words, he placed an envelope in my hands and walked away. Without hesitation, I opened the envelope hoping that in it contained an answer of where I could possibly find you, but the answer that lay inside it was not one that I was looking for.
I ripped the picture in fear, praying that it wasn't true, but knowing that there were no means of finding out otherwise. Those who took you are careful, leaving no trail behind unless they wanted you to be found.
I sit in my worn, beat up sofa, with the pieces of your picture in my hand, letting my teardrops drown the photo.
I no longer count the minutes you are gone, but the minutes I know you are dead. Five minutes ago, my whole world shattered. I used to live with the hope that maybe, just maybe, you would appear and you would be safe, but now all hope is gone. I have shut myself out of the world and am crawling deeper and deeper into a hole I cannot escaped. Without clue, without thought, I scatter your picture among my already littered floor, and pick up the gun strategically placed within my grasp. I pulled the trigger.
When I woke up, I found that I was in heaven, surprised that I would be granted a place is this oasis. Suicide is a sin but perhaps God felt sorry for me.
When I woke up, I hoped that I would be greeted with your grace, and found that you were no where near. I wandered in this new land, trying to find you, calling out your name, but the celestial residents only looked at me sadly and directed me to someone who might know where you are.
I believe that I spoke to God and begged Him to show me where you were. I didn't believe Him when He said that you were not here. I shouted, cursed at Him, saying that it couldn't be true, that I held evidence in my hands that you were dead. Then He showed me, that you were alive, not well, but alive nonetheless and suddenly I wanted to be alive again.
But He would not grant me my wish saying that it would be unfair to the others. But what can be more unfair then spending eternity without you? I can see you through this portal, your body ravaged and breathing slow, and I want to be there with you, to help you through the pain.
I leave in anger and cry out why and I hear in reply that it would be useless to breathe life into me once more, that I would soon find what I am searching for.
I don't quite understand His comment. I no longer searched for you. I know where you are, in a cold cellar beneath a house in the average looking neighborhood, dying alone because I couldn't find you.
Dying. You are dying and I am dead.
I understand now that you will soon join me, excited about it but also saddened. Behind you leave a family who cares about you, who still have after six months, thirteen days, two hours, and nine minutes. Now I feel selfish, wanting you to die so you can finally join me, so I can finally have you. I want you to live now and approach God with my request, and He simply laughs at me, saying that I ask for too much.
I watch you through this portal, crying out my name, and watching the men take you away and bring you back even more beaten than you were before. Sometimes, I need to look away when you are at your worst. I cannot stand watching you being broken.
I feel asleep underneath the moon, counting the stars in the sky. I have found my sister but I still do not have you.
When I wake up, there is sun in my face, and when I finally open my eyes, I find you, next to me.
Where are we, you ask.
I've missed you, I say.
I remember, you say. I called for you but you never came.
I'm here now, I reply.
You nod in reply and for the first time in six months, twenty days, seventeen hours, and three minutes, I feel happy.