Why is it that living and dying, no matter how much of a line there is between the two, always seems to seep, slowly yet steadily, into each other's territory? I never understood it, no matter how much I pondered and wracked my brain. The same thought haunted me deep into the nights that I had deemed non-restful. Those were usually cool, calm nights filled with the not-so-subtle sounds of the city. Those autumn nights that suffocated me into thinking of another autumn not too long ago.
You always told me that the reason you took such good care of Roger was because you were the one to help him survive. You were the one that held him while he fell and force-fed him his AZT on the way down, hoping he would just bounce back up. What you didn't realize was that I, as well as Roger, saw right through it. You took care of Roger because you knew, but didn't want to admit, that you would be the one to survive. The one to be left alone and cold and forgotten by anything breathing.
It hurt you. You couldn't handle the pain so you allowed numbness to take over. What you didn't realize was that the numbness would soon overwhelm you. And it did, on a cool, calm autumn night.
I saw the blood first. Dried brown covering the flood, the mattress, the bedside table. I didn't want to tear my eyes away from the dried blood because I knew if I ventured any further I would see you lying on the crusted mattress, your ocean-blue eyes blank and gone, and your skin a pasty white. All I allowed myself to do was to close my eyes, breathe deep, and listen to the sounds of Roger's cries.
"You were supposed to be the one to survive," Roger whispered hoarsely.
"Poor baby."
