Once

He held her corpse firmly in his arms. Blood trickled a little, down her forehead and onto his hands as he knelt down on the cement. Her body was past the rigor mortis phase. He softly brushed her long hair, hoping her head wouldn't cave inward from the puncture wound.

He faintly cried now, barely above a whisper. He curled into this position for at least a couple hours now. His body becoming contortedly numb. Uncontrollably, his fresh tears splashed down onto her face, meshing with the dried ones that rolled down hers. His stomach churned from the repulsive stench from the inside out, but this was the least of his worries. He knew it wasn't the wisest idea to be holding a corpse, but he didn't care.

Dusk was almost on its way out, but it couldn't have been earlier than four in the morning.

His mind started to race laps, possibly a marathon. He knew he couldn't be caught here as no one would find his story remotely plausible or credible. Wouldn't his friends and other people question where they vanished off to that night, and eventually, the length of her disappearance? His first instinct and thought were to run, but where?

Finally, he zipped up his jacket, running the first place he could think of.

--

I don't know about you, but the whole notion of soul-mate has been bastardized by television and Hollywood, particularly in the whole romantic comedy genre. While I do enjoy it from time to time; it's pure escapism at its finest. Seriously, if you want a guaranteed hit, stick a love plotline in there. One of those that start off where one person has feelings for the other, but the other isn't on the same wavelength.

Eventually, the scripts get flipped and the latter's pining for the former. In the end, it eventually all gets wrapped up with a cute little bow, the couple lives happily ever after. Furthermore, the more parties involved the more interesting, right? I call bullshit though.

However, my take is that your "soul-mate" doesn't necessarily mean your boyfriend or girlfriend or someone you're fucking. Hell, I'm not saying it couldn't be that; if it is, great but it could also your best friend, a relative, another friend or even an inanimate object. It is something that essentially understands you and completes who you are as a person, but that could just be my jaded ramblings…

--

"So, where are we playing tonight?" Ross quizzed his peers.

"We, my friends, are playing at the renowned Apollo Theaters," Kip answered bluntly.

"That is right, bitches!" Mike exclaimed, cheerily emphatic. "Can you believe this shit? If I had a vagina, I'd have multiple orgasms by now."

"Mike, it's okay," Kip joked. "We already know you have a vagina."

Ross' cell phone went off. It was her.

"Hey sweetie, are you coming to the show tonight?" Ross spoke on the phone with his girlfriend, enthused but the sudden change and tonality in his voice revealed otherwise. "You're working again, tonight? Can't you get someone else to cover your shift? Alright, I love you too…"

Out of respect, the three minded their business but continued their incessant chatter elsewhere, obviously still elated about playing somewhere they never imagined. They cared about their friend, but they didn't necessarily like he was heading in that relationship.

--

She informed him she would wait for him after the show outside the theater doors. And true to her word, she delivered on her promise.

They both decided it was best to put all their differences aside from earlier in the week. "Is that the purse I bought you for your birthday?"

"Yeah, it is," she smiled at the recollection. She had had her eye on it when they had gone window shopping several months back. He used his portion of the gig money to purchase it. And considering the look on her face after getting the gift, he would say it was money well spent.

They went for a walk in the blistering cold, not unusual for a December night in any part of New York. Contemplative, she rested her head on his broad shoulders and their arms intertwined. There was a peaceful but slightly unnatural silence between them. They both collectively began brewing in their minds.

Ross noticed that she started sniffling, at that moment where you're on the brink of crying. Also, she was a lot quieter than normal. He couldn't place his fingers on exactly why. He was getting tired of the current tension between them, "Honey, is something wrong? Did I do something?"

"No," she despondently responded as someone rudely brushed past them, splitting them apart. She went into her purse and grabbed some tissue as they continued to walk down the streets, seemingly heading nowhere in particular. He tried to reestablish and joined his arm in hers, but she didn't let him. She continued walking with him trying to catch up with her.

"Because if there is, just let me know," he said in an earnest and, for the first time, scared tone in his voice. "If I did anything, I'm sorry. God, I love you so much it's ridiculous…"

Their bodies neared an alley when she came to a complete stop. She started crying again, this time more openly. In one swift motion, she pulled out the nine millimeter into her free hand. She spoke, her voice weak and feeble, "I'm sorry…"

"For what?" he said, fear running rampant in his blood from head to toe. His heart pumped nearly twice as fast as though it were going to burst from his chest.

Thwhack.

One might presume would be the sound of metal crashing against bone. It might not have been the biggest or fiercest blow but it did enough damage to leave him unconscious.

Thud.

The sound of a limp body crashing downwards to the pavement.

"I really am, Ross," she said. Tears choked her up, causing her voice to crack.

"I'm sorry," she repeated again. She hoped the back of his consciousness would hear her admission, her confession. "None of this was ever your fault, so don't blame yourself. I don't think I've ever loved anyone as much as I loved you and, that, it scares the hell out of me…"

She began speaking incoherently, short of babbling. And although they had the phrase many times before between them, it had never felt more surreal or possibly poignant. She placed the gun just above her left ear, closed her eyes and as her finger began to slowly squeeze the trigger, she mumbled, "Ross, I do love you."

Bang.

--

Ross woke up, drenched in a pile of sweat. He had had another nightmare, the second night in a row. He hadn't told anyone of these occurrences, chalking it up to sleep deprivation. The foursome had been busy, on location while filming a video for their single.

He stretched and yawned as he watched Chandler standing in front of a green screen. The band had collaborated on the entire concept for their video, each adding each of their spin and input. It began with Chandler getting in one of the many taxis to the subway station. While listening to his compact disc player, he began singing lyrics to a song.

His three companions would already be at the "subway" station performing, waiting for him. Chandler would get out of the taxi, paying less than the amount owed and the driver cursing the shit out of him. Unsympathetically, he would breeze past the homeless who were begging for change, but also, calmly people of different races and ethnicities, who rushed monotonously to get to their "9-to-5" jobs with their business suits.

Several minorities and lower-class people would cut in the line, causing the "suits" to yelling inaudible racial and derogatory slurs all the while still listening and singing the song. A brawl ensued. Thunder roared and lightning struck. It began raining, but instead of raindrops, it began raining vast sums of money and loose change and the huge crowd began scampering after the currency.

It would end with Chandler tossing the disc player at an oncoming train, while holding onto the microphone in front of him and singing the rest of the lyrics as it would fade out…

"Cut," the director yelled, "Good, Chandler."

--

Mike and Kip were watching the game as Chandler filmed his scenes. It was opening day for baseball, both of whom were huge Mets fans.

"Ah, come on Glavine," Mike yelled. "That's not what you're being paid to do…"

"Damn, Ross. You look like you've seen a ghost or something," Kip spoke worriedly. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," he mentioned, desperately trying to act nonchalant. "I just didn't get enough sleep last night is all."

"You're going to be on the second leg of a fall tour as one of the opening acts, meaning you'll be playing several dates on the west," their manager came bursting in with great news, "Your album's doing pretty good on the Billboard charts. The record's sold a modest 52,000+ copies, but that still exceeded the record label's expectations. It cracked the top 100 albums sold last week at #79."

"Any dates in California?" Ross pondered, delighted by the entire situation.

"You'll be playing at The Fillmore in San Francisco," he replied. "It's one of the more historic venues in the Bay Area; many established bands and comedians have played and gotten their start there."

"Hopefully, in a year or so, we'll be playing all the dates rather than just half or better yet headlining," Mike romanticized. With that, their manager left them to brew in their success. "This shit is going to be crazy."

"So, what's up Ross?" Chandler inquired from his best friend.

"I have lyrics written down for whenever," he replied, tossing him the folded up pieces of paper.

"Already?" he wondered, "Our album just released a couple months ago, man."

"It keeps me busy," Ross joked, "Like I've said, I'm insomnia's filthy whore."

"Come on, man. You've got to give me some credit; there's more to it than just a 'lack of sleep,'" he called out his friend.

"Alright, but you can't tell Mike or Kip, I'll be the one to do that, if ever that is," Ross asked him for that particular favor, "but I've been having nightmares lately… about her."

Chandler winced, knowing how the known parts of the scenario transpired, "I mean, it's been along time now since her death, but I still feel partly responsible. I feel like I've moved on too quickly and don't feel guilty about doing so…"

"Well, not to sound like an ass," he paused, "but I can't say I envy you. I can't imagine what you went through and wouldn't wish that on anyone else. However, maybe you still haven't fully had closure on the whole thing?"

"Maybe," the other concurred to the point. "I mean, I haven't even visited her grave… once. How shitty of an ex-boyfriend am I?"

"That's true, man," he conceded, "but it wasn't like she was 'girlfriend-of-the-year' material, either. I mean, she did some shady things too."

Ross nodded, "Thanks, man."

"I'll be on your side forever more," he sang mockingly. "Because that's what friends are for."

--

Sometimes things come earlier than expected. Births, deaths, and orgasms are probably some that come to the forefront even any particular relationship can come to an abrupt end.

As I've said before, bad shit will always happen in life. If anything, that's every bit an inevitability as death. It can depend on how the law of averages either favors or fucks you over, but again, it doesn't matter how long it takes you to pull through as long as you weather those storms and how many of those storms you have. During the whole time, you find out who your true friends and family are, separate them from the fakes that are all in it for your cash, your fifteen minutes, your celebrity.

You could always end it selfishly by taking your own life, but affect the people around you. Or you could go on miserably, pretending everything is alright when your world could practically crumble on itself. I'm sure there's a middle ground between the two, but I haven't found it yet.

A few years ago, every time I looked at these pictures, I see "soul mate." I saw the one person I thought I could possibly spend forever with. Now, I see her for the conniving bitch she really was, but why couldn't I see it earlier? And maybe that's the thing about getting older; supposedly, you gain more wisdom and knowledge, tools to help you cope whenever things are shit. That's why you savor any quiet periods you can before the calms lead to the storms.

I don't know how many people would agree, but to be at peace would be a sin, and surely "un-American". With the "wisdom" I've picked up, there is a method to its madness.

We demand salary increases because we aren't content with what we already have when, fucking trite and holier-than-thou as this whole thing sounds, there are people who don't have shit or next to nothing. We buy materialistic things to fill our egos, to prove that we're somehow superior to the next person. It's one of the reasons why we cheat, steal, lie and everything else in between – anything to reach the top, right? I've talked about this with Chandler, but he only agrees to an extent. I suppose it's all about perspective…

--

Caroline Michelle Willick, 1980-2000 was what the inscription on the tombstone simply read as he stood in front of it, Wonderful daughter and sister. He could barely contain the smirk at wonderful and her name juxtaposed in the same sentence.

As Chandler watched from a few feet or so ago, Ross played with the lighter's lid, watching the flame flicker and dissipate. He placed the cigarette in his mouth just minutes prior. He never had been much of a smoker before, but now, it was easier said than done to kick the habit. His body now went through shakes with long periods of nicotine withdrawal.

"I can't believe you didn't tell me or why you didn't," his statement muffled by the cig on his lips, "So, finding out the hard way wasn't fun. Why couldn't you have just said something, huh?"

"I probably would have been a lot happier and better off if we never met," he grabbed the white envelope from his back pocket, his name written in cursive on the front of it. "I'm addicted to these damn cigarettes, lost and continue to lose countless hours of sleep, blaming myself for everything and all the other shit and for what? Absolutely nothing, Carol…"

He firmly opened his lighter and lit the upper portion of the envelope on fire, watching it slowly disintegrate into ashes and floated onto the ground. As the top portion of the envelope started to caved inward, wads of cash began to crumble along with it. Its ashes floated in front of the tombstone.

Shortcuts through graveyards and a brand new way to breathe,
Three thousand miles to learn, all that's gold does not all shine…

"You should've kept those three thousand miles in your back pocket, 'hon'," he ranted reminiscing the time he had written those lyrics, getting angrier by the second, "Stayed the fuck in Berkeley."

Ross was practically hysterical at this point, almost breaking down to cry and squatted in front of the headstone. However, he couldn't bring himself to do so. It would've been the same as admitting defeat in front of her.

Chandler stood behind him, hand firmly resting on his shoulder, "It's okay, man."

He scorned, "I'm sure George and Adelaide are proud of you."

"Yeah," a familiar voice resonated. "I don't think they would be, Ross…"

--

A/N: The song being used for the "video" is "Cold Cash and Colder Hearts" and the lyrics are "Beltsville Crucible" again.