Disclaimer: I do not own Dead Poets Society.
Note: Commonly, the stages of grief are listed as denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. Personally I prefer bargaining before anger. Sorry if you disapprove… but to be perfectly honest, I really don't care that much if you do.
Five Stages
s t a g e i.
Charlie's a liar. Don't you remember? Has he ever once been honest with any of us? I don't think he has. Some of the boys are crying, Neil. I feel bad for them; they actually believe him. Well, I suppose you can't blame them; Charlie's an excellent actor. He could probably give you a run for your money! I'd like to see the two of you together. We'd all love that. You two can be the next big thing; you with your monologues and him with his crocodile tears. You can cry on command, can't you, Neil? Well, Charlie can, and he's pretty damn convincing too. Look at that: he's even got me going. What am I crying for? Charlie can't be telling the truth.
s t a g e ii.
You were my happy ending, did I ever tell you that? You gave me hope when I had none. What can I say to bring you back to us? What can I do? There must be something, Neil. What if I killed myself? Would it bring you back? It wouldn't, I know. But maybe it would be enough for us to be in Heaven together.
s t a g e iii.
Why wasn't I enough for you? Why wasn't this world enough? You and your damn dreams. Your fucking dreams. We all have dreams too, Neil, every one of us- me and Charlie and Knox and Mr. Keating, and every one of us has a broken heart just like you. What made you so Goddamn different? Why'd you get to escape? You and your fucking acting and your scripts and your stages and your Goddamn Carpe Diem. Why'd you get to leave? What made you so special?
s t a g e iv.
Sometimes I dream that I'm you, just before I fall asleep. It's half-fantasy, half-delusion that my hands become your hands and my broken heart melds with yours… I'm looking in the mirror, watching your reflection, and you're crying, Neil, because you were a dreamer who woke up from the dream. So you went back to sleep. And I wake up crying and just lie there, trembling, too weak to wipe them away. I wonder if you were as steady in death as you were in life. I doubt that your hands even shook as you raised the gun.
s t a g e v.
If I could have raised you up to fly, Neil, I would have. But like you always do, you found your own way. This was your freedom, and your freedom is your peace. Rest in freedom, Neil.