The sound of an ambulance siren blasting snapped Brian out of his stupor. He leaned up and peered over the edge of the building. He must have fallen asleep at some point, because something had apparently happened below; police cars and ambulances were parked all in front of the tenement. At first he wondered if Standalone or whatever the tramp had said his name was had double-crossed him and called the cops on him anyway, but a quick look down into the alley below revealed they weren't there for him: the medics were wheeling a sheet-covered gurney from the back of the alley towards the nearest ambulance. He was surprised he hadn't heard anything at all, but he did know one thing: he certainly couldn't jump now, not with the authorities all over the place; indeed, one police officer was starting to come up the fire escape now, presumably for a better view of the scene of the death. He'd have to move on before he was spotted and turned in and come up with another idea.
Noticing a second fire escape on the other side of the roof, he bustled towards it and hustled down it before the cop could reach the roof and see him. Once he reached the bottom, he peeked around the corner of the alley, trying to listen in to the police and medics talking as the body was loaded into the ambulance, hoping to find out what had happened. They were mumbling too low for him to hear, however, and he couldn't make out much beyond a few small snippets, such as, "...can't understand why...no reason I can see, especially right now, after..." Oh well, he shrugged, it really wasn't any of his concern in the end what happened to some anonymous wino who'd drunk too much and let the elements get to him.
He waited until no one was watching before exiting the alley and walking back down the street the way he'd come before. Strangely, although it was still snowing hard and the wind chill was still brutal, the cold didn't seem to be affecting him anymore. Perhaps, he reasoned to himself, his body had been overly numbed by the snowstorm to the point he could no longer feel it, which would be unusual, but not...
The blaring of a bus horn caught his attention. One was now coming straight up the street at a reasonable clip towards where he was standing. Yes, he thought in delight, finally a quick and easy way out! He barreled into the street, stopping right in the bus's path, spread his arms wide, and closed his eyes, waiting for the impact that would finally put him out of his misery. The horn blared again as the bus bore down right on top of him...
...but instead of a violent impact, he felt only a warm whooshing sensation, after which the bus's engine could be heard diminishing. His eyes snapped back open in surprise as he spun back around. Sure enough, the bus was past him and driving on. Brian felt extremely confused. How could it possibly have missed him? From his judgment before he'd closed his eyes, there wouldn't have been enough time for it to stop, and he hadn't heard either brakes or the squeal of the tires as would have been expected if it had swerved around him.
"I guess I misjudged where to stand," he reasoned, glancing up the street for another bus, but only a snowplow and a few regular cars in the distance could be seen through the snow. None of them could effectively do the job the way he wanted it to go. Sighing, he trudged back to the sidewalk and continued his slow march back down the street. He had no idea what to do now. Perhaps, he thought, if he just kept walking in the snow, eventually he'd just keel over dead; sooner or later the cold had to finish him, even if it didn't seem to be having any effect on him at the moment.
Slowly the bright lights of the center of Chicago came into view again as he got closer to the convention center again. But Brian wasn't noticing this, his eyes cast firmly at the ground, trying to plot his next step. This, combined with the near zero visibility the storm was allowing, made it all too understandable when, without warning, he bumped into someone, spilling them both to the sidewalk. "Hey watch where you're going, you jerk!" shouted an upset voice. But a very familiar upset voice to Brian...
"Claire," he bent down and helped her to her feet, "Funny seeing you out here in this mess. Why didn't you show up for the finals? I thought we all agreed...?"
"What are you talking about!?" there was a sharp edge to her voice, as if she was in a bad mood; indeed, Brian could see she had been crying for some unknown reason, as her eyes were quite red. She was looking at him strangely as well. Brian looked around to see if the others were with her, but she was alone. "Uh, well, Claire, you did all promise..." he started to say.
"Who are you!?" she glared right at him, "And how the hell do you know my name!?"
"Now Claire..."
"Don't 'Now Claire' me, mister!" she unexpectedly roared at him, making him jump back in surprise, "I've never seen you before, that's for sure! Now don't bother me; I've had a very, very long, miserable day, and I just want to forget about everything that's happened, so just leave me alone, OK!?"
Her eyes started watering intensely now, and with a loud whimper of misery, she bustled towards the large department store that was next to where they had crashed. "Uh, Claire, it looks like it's going to be closing in about five minutes..." Brian called to her.
"I don't care; I'll spend the night inside; just don't bother me!" she did not look back as she pushed through the revolving door, leaving a very confused Brian outside. What had that all been about, he wondered to himself? They had certainly parted detention on reasonably good terms, even though it had taken a while to get there. Had she learned of his failure at the finals and gotten mad at him for that? It must have been, he thought sadly. "Nice going, Johnson, now you've even lost her with your stupid mistake too!" he snarled mentally at himself, "Well, if she was there, maybe everyone else was too and I didn't see them. Maybe they're still there; if I hurry, maybe I can catch them and tell them up front how sorry I am."
He increased his pace down the street until the convention center came into view through the whirling snow. But he was surprised to see the Shermer shuttle wasn't parked where it had been when they'd arrived. Had they gotten into it and gone out to look for him, he wondered? That had to be it, he reasoned; sooner or later, they'd be back for him. But at least he could verify it, for a large knot of people were standing around outside the convention center, and he recognized several of the judges from the final match among them. He bustled over to the nearest one, a distinguished elderly man, and tugged at his coat sleeve. "Uh, sir, excuse me, I'm just wondering, when did the Shermer team take off?" he asked the man.
"Huh?" the judge frowned, "What school?"
"Shermer. Did they go looking for me? I'm the one that ran off earlier."
"I don't know what you're talking about, young man," he shook his head, "The Shermer team isn't here."
"Yes, I know, I'm asking you, where did they go?" Brian pressed him.
"Nowhere," another judge cracked, "Just like they always do."
"I, I don't understand," Brian was utterly confused now, "Look, I was on the Shermer team..."
"Look kid, we don't have time for jokes," the first judge reprimanded him firmly, "I judged Shermer's only match this year; they lost in the first round like they always do, so there was no reason for them to be here for the finals. You must be mistaken. Now please, we're busy men."
He turned back to his associates. "Huh? First round? Is this supposed to be some kind of joke!?" Brian was starting to feel frustrated now, "Hold on, let me guess, this was Mr. Vernon's idea, wasn't it!? He wanted revenge, so he told you to tell me we didn't make the finals when I got back, didn't he!?"
"Look, see for yourself if you insist on doing this, kid; Shermer didn't even make it this far," another judge shoved the match scorecard into his hand. Brian blinked hard at the notepad. Lake Forest Central had won...but over North Wilmette...North Wilmette!? They'd gone out in the first round, he recalled, easily crushed by New Trier. Something definitely wasn't right here. He glanced at the runner-ups' profiles. Apparently it wasn't simply a case of them putting the wrong heading on the card; he didn't recognize any of the people listed under the North Wilmette banner, and the final score was a thirty point blowout in Lake Forest Central's favor. What was the story here?
"Has to be Mr. Vernon's doing, has to be," he assured himself, "He wants revenge; he probably herded everyone on the shuttle and had them drive home to Shermer without me, and told them to leave this behind. I can see why Bender hates the man. Well, he can't do this so easily to me. I'll just catch a bus back to town, and when I get to the school, I'll confront him on..."
His attention was momentarily distracted by someone screaming in anguish. He walked forward and glanced around the corner of the convention center, but the knot of people there was even larger and tighter, and he couldn't make anyone or anything through them. Somewhere inside the crush of people, though, a woman was wailing in agony like there was no tomorrow. The flashing lights of a police cruiser blinked nearby, so it had to be something significant-probably someone caught selling drugs, he supposed. "It's not my business anyway," he thought to himself, tossing the match scorecard to the sidewalk at the judges' feet and walking back up the street towards where he knew the bus terminal was. He had more pressing matters to take care of.
A brisk five minute walk brought him to the bus terminal. Surely, he reasoned, there had to be a bus going to Shermer even at this later hour. Then he could get everything settled once he got back home. But before he reached the doors...
"Well, good evening again, my friend," Stanpovalichki called from the bench closest to the doors, "Roof too cold for you, I guess?"
"Things just came up," Brian told him coolly, "I'm still going to end it when I get the chance. Right now, though, I'm just getting a ride home; the superintendent made them leave without me."
"Hmm," Stanpovalichki mused, 'Maybe, maybe not. Actually, Keema and I, we were going to Shermer right now too-I have some business to take care of there-so if you need any extra money for the fare..."
"Thanks but no thanks; I still have more than..." Brian frowned as he reached into his pocket; his wallet wasn't there. And neither was his cell phone for that matter. "Did you take my wallet up on the roof!?" he snapped accusingly at Stanpovalichki.
"What wallet?" the homeless man shrugged innocently, "I don't think you have a wallet."
"No kidding; hand it over!" Brian thrust his hand forward.
"I don't have it. No one has it."
"Not funny; hand it over right now!" Brian lunged at him and rifled through Stanpovalichki's pant and coat pockets. But it appeared his "friend" was telling the truth; the wallet wasn't on him. "OK, maybe you're right," he conceded, figuring someone else had sneaked onto the roof and picked his pockets while he'd been asleep-perhaps whoever it was that had died in the alley below while he was out, "Well, I guess I'll take your offer of a ticket then, Mr...whatever you said your name was."
"Stanpovalichki," the homeless man opened his suitcase and gestured Keema inside it, flipping open a hidden grating to provide ventilation before he slammed it shut, "And glad to help; anything for someone who could really use it."
"I'm just fine, thank you; I just need a ride home, that's all," Brian told him firmly. He followed Stanpovalichki into the terminal, surprised the man could lift the suitcase with his dog inside with no apparent strain. They approached the Trailways desk. "Two to Shermer if there's any going there," Stanpovalichki told the receptionist.
"Let me check," the receptionist punched some figures into her computer, "Looks like you're just going to catch the last one; Gate Nine, leaving in ten minutes."
"Very much appreciated," Stanpovalichki tipped his fedora to her. "After you," he handed Brian one of the tickets after he'd received them and gestured him forward towards the escalator to the loading area. The bus was surprisingly empty when they climbed on board, Brian noted. Oh well, he reasoned, it was a later hour, and Shermer wasn't exactly Chicago's biggest suburb. He slid into a starboard window seat and closed his eyes, even though he really didn't feel fatigued. Essentially, he just wanted the night to be over now, and everything to return to some semblance of normalcy for himself, whatever that would take.
He must have fallen asleep again, for the next time he looked out the window, they were driving at a reasonable clip considering the elements, and were getting close to Shermer. Indeed, Shermer High would be right around the corner now, he realized. "Awake again, I see?" Stanpovalichki leaned over the seat behind him.
"Uh, yeah; actually, let's ask the driver to stop here at Shermer High; I'm sure someone left the..." Brian's voice trailed off as they passed Shermer High...which was completely pitch dark, with no sign of anyone being there. "That's strange," he mused, more confused, "I would have thought someone would have been there. Something's really not right here; first they tell me we didn't even make the finals this year, now no one's here even waiting for me."
"Well, if you didn't make the finals, I guess there'd be no reason for anyone to wait up there," Stanpovalichki said with what appeared to be a wry smile.
"But we did make the finals; I told you that on the roof!" Brian told him, frustrated, "Look, mister, I'm not in the mood for whatever game you want to play here, so don't, OK, just don't."
The homeless man merely leaned back in his seat and whistled softly. In about four more minutes, the bus eased to a stop outside the Shermer bus terminal. Everything seemed normal as far as Brian could tell, and yet, as he stepped off the bus, he got a strange chill on the back of his neck, as if something wasn't quite right. "Something on your mind?" Stanpovalichki asked him, opening the suitcase and letting Keema out as the bus pulled away behind them.
"Look, I didn't ask you to follow..." again Brian trailed off as he saw a figure he definitely wanted to see seated on another bench not fifty feet away. "Mr. Jacobson," he trotted towards him, "Did Mr. Vernon make you leave without...?"
"Huh?" his team instructed glanced blankly up at him-revealing he'd somehow managed to grow a significant amount of stubble in a matter of hours. His expression was confused and muddled. "What are you going on about?" he asked again, more than a little curtness in his voice.
"The shuttle, did Mr. Vernon make you take it back without me after the competition? I got back, and no one was there, so I had to take the bus back..."
"I don't know what you're going on about," Mr. Jacobson told him off with surprising sharpness, "And moreover, I don't even know who you are, young man."
"Well of course you do, Mr. Jacobson; I've been on the Simmons team the last four years..."
"Had some liquor in you then, I guess," the teacher snorted, jerking to his feet, "That's only explanation I have for your ranting, young man. First off, I never met you before in my life; secondly, I quit teaching, and most assuredly the Simmons team as well, four years ago. No one in the student body gave a damn anymore about trying, so there was no point in me sticking around as I saw it."
"Huh?" Brian was totally dumbfounded, "What are you saying? That's not true; Corey was on the team with me every year, remember? Brian Johnson...?"
"Never heard that name before. And Corey didn't bother signing up for that infernal, heartbreaking event after I quit. Now don't bother me, kid; I've had a long and trying day," he lumbered off, looking embittered. Brian stood stone still, trying to somehow process all of this. "What in God's name was he going on about?" he mumbled, "Why would he say he didn't know me?"
"Maybe because he doesn't," Stanpovalichki walked up alongside him, "And maybe because he didn't really coach the team this year or the last four years."
"Oh don't you start that again!" Brian shouted at him, "He loved the team; there's no way he would have quit before he wanted to retire! Coaching us meant the world to him...!"
"Actually, I'd say it meant the world to him only if he could share the experience with someone eager to learn and try hard in each match, win or lose," Stanpovalichki shook his head knowingly, "And although it would have been an honor to work with his son, if no one else had the enthusiasm, why bother? Now imagine if a certain eager seventh grader hadn't come up to him five years ago after Shermer was knocked out in the first round again, introduced himself as a big fan of the competition, and told him he'd do whatever it took to help him win it once he'd graduated to high school..."
"How...how do you know about that!?" Brian almost keeled over in shock; no one had witnessed that conversation between Mr. Jacobson and himself back in junior high.
"You'd be surprised at the things I happen to know," Stanpovalichki raised his eyebrows, "If that seventh grader hadn't been there to convince him that kids still care about doing good in academic matters, and that people like him could still make a difference in his students' lives..."
But Brian wasn't listening again. For two more familiar figures were approaching the depot, talking happily to each other. At least that fit with what he knew, so maybe they could tell him something. "Andy, Allison," he ran forward and waved them down, "Now, please, don't tell me you don't know me..."
"Well, you're right, whoever you are, I don't know you," Andrew abruptly frowned him down. The look in his eyes clued Brian that he actually meant it. "Oh come on you guys, don't you start that too!" he begged them, "We were in detention together a few weeks ago; the two of you, me, Claire, and Bender; tell me you at least remember that!"
"Yeah, Claire and Bender were there with us," Allison nodded softly, frowning herself, "But you certainly weren't, whoever you are, so I have no idea how you'd know anything about that detention. I've never seen you before in my life; have you, Andy?" she asked him.
"Not at all," Andrew shook his head firmly, "He looks like a real nerd though, the kind of person that would have really made that detention a riot."
The two of them snorted openly. Brian felt faint; what was going on here!? "Come on, you guys, you do know me!" he pleaded with them as they started walking away, "We were there in detention for half of that Saturday; you all promised you'd come to the competition tonight if Shermer made it to the finals...!"
"Which they never will," Allison turned and stared at him with confusion and more than a little derision, "They lost in the first round again like they always do, and for your information, whoever you are, I'd never be caught dead watching a pack of nerds answering questions about things I don't even know about."
"Same here; I take pride in being normal," Andrew added, pulling her close with another snort. The two of them started walking away, barely able to suppress derisive laughter. "What are you talking about!? We made it to the finals, damn it; you know it and everyone knows it!" Brian all but screamed after them, "Now if this is some kind of colossal joke," he glared back at Stanpovalichki, "It's gone too far! Let's...!
They weren't listening to him, and were soon out of sight in the snow. "All right, I want an answer!" he demanded Stanpovalichki, "What's going on here, and I want the truth!"
"OK, you asked for it," the homeless man shrugged, "You said you wished everyone you knew had never met you; well, I know it's a bit clichéd to show people who want to kill themselves the world in which they never existed, but given how cut up you were, I figured there'd be no reason to break precedent. So, careful what you wish for, Brian Ralph Johnson...if you ever existed, that is. Oh, and by the way, since you've never existed, you can't possibly get killed, by a bus or anything."
"You're lying," he pointed an accusing finger in the homeless man's face, "Mr. Vernon put you up to it, didn't he!? Well, I don't have to put up with this any more; now that I'm back here in Shermer, I'm going home!"
"Well, I'd wish you luck; if you had a home to go back to, that is," Stanpovalichki shrugged.
"Stop it!" he bellowed at the homeless man. Collecting himself, he pointed a sharp finger at him and muttered, "Wait here!" before storming up the street in the direction of his house. By now, he just wanted to plop under the covers and forget the whole night had ever happened.
Within three minutes, his house came into sight. That at least was encouraging. As he hopped up the porch, however, what was not encouraging was the enraged screaming from inside the house. "...none of you control me!" he heard Mary shouting in a far more angry manner than he'd thought his parents would ever allow, "I've had it with you trying to make me into your big, stupid honors student!"
"Don't use that tone with us, young lady!" his mother barked.
"Go to hell!" his sister roared, making Brian jump back in shock on the porch; although she was frequently that abrasive with him when no one else was around, she never spoke to their parents like that, "I don't care to be the smartest in my class whether either of you like it or not! I'm going over Caitlin's; don't follow me!"
The door slammed open inches from his face. "Out of my way!" Mary shoved him aside, stopping to frown up confusedly at him before stomping off. He stood frozen in place for a split second, but that was broken as his mother appeared in the doorway, looking surprisingly weary and abruptly overweight, preparing to shout some parting insults at her daughter. "Mom, it's me, Brian, please tell me you at least recognize me," he jumped in front of her before she could deliver them, "Look, I'm sorry I failed you with the competition, but I..."
"You're who?" there was mass confusion on her face.
"Damn it, please don't you start too! It's me, Brian, your son!"
"Son?" her expression grew deeply remorseful, "Oh, I wish you were; you look just like what I'd want a son to look like."
"What's going on now, Mercedes?" his father, also shockingly unshaven like Mr. Jacobson, appeared in the doorway next to his wife, but it was what he was clutching in his hand that made Brian gasp. "Dad, when did you start drinking!?" he stammered, "All those years you told me never to touch alcohol...!"
"Who are you!?" Mr. Johnson frowned at him.
"Your son, for the love of God!" he couldn't take much more of this, "It's me, Bri-!"
Something else caught his attention; the large family portrait hanging on the wall in the front hall-or, more accurately, what wasn't in the picture. "Wait a second, where am I!?" he gasped, pushing past his parents to gape in shock at it, "I was in this one; we had it taken at...!"
"I'm sorry, young man, but I don't know who you are," Mr. Johnson stepped into his way and shook his head firmly, "I'm afraid I don't have a son," his expression became very crestfallen, "I wish I did, though, I really do. Now if you don't mind, we'd like to be alone right now, to try and figure out where we went so horribly wrong as parents."
"No Dad, don't...!" Brian's plea was cut off as his parents closed the door on him. He reeled backwards off the porch in shock, listening to the two of them start crying inside, the image of the picture without him lingering horribly in his mind. Was Stanpovalichki right? Did he really no longer exist?
"Yeah, it's true," came the homeless man's voice from behind him, making Brian cry out as he jumped in shock. "What's the matter with them!?" he begged Stanpovalichki, "Why are they drinking; why are they screaming at Mary...!?"
"Unfortunately, she doesn't meet their standards," Stanpovalichki shook his head sadly, "You see, a child who shared their love for learning would have been a godsend to them, someone they'd feel the utmost pride for, someone they'd be delighted to see succeed, someone who would have given them something to really fight for. But since you're not here, they're stuck with a daughter who, wonderful though she is in so many other ways, doesn't like it their way most of the time, as you just saw. And without the kind of kid they'd really, really hoped to have deep down, well, the bottle looks pretty darn enticing. You probably don't want to know the rest of the story; I'm sparing you the real gory details here, kid. Oh, and by the way," he started walking towards Brian, "Shermer DID lose in the first round this year, making them more of the butt of jokes from the administrators of the competition than ever before, not to mention from the student body itself, who wonder why the school even bothers trying anymore."
"But...but...I didn't play any critical part on the team; they didn't need me!" Brian protested, pure terror starting to well up inside him.
"Didn't they? Look under the surface, Brian, like I thought you'd learned to do in detention; maybe you'll find a different story..."
"No!" he turned to run...and screamed, for Stanpovalichki had suddenly teleported in front of him. "You told me on that roof you were worthless, and that the whole world would be better off without you," he said solemnly, his expression ominously stone solid, "Look around you, Brian Johnson; does the world really look better without you? Do your friends really look any better without you? For one thing, being able to go to that competition tonight was huge for Claire; it gave her a good outlet away from all the trouble she's going through at home right now with her parents splitting up that she otherwise wouldn't have had if she'd never met you that Saturday..."
"Stay away from me!" completely freaked out now, he broke into a run, desperate to just get away from the homeless man. The question in his mind was how to stop the whole mess he seemed to be in. He knew of one last place he could go that seemed safe.
He kept glancing over his shoulder all the way to Fern Street, but Stanpovalichki didn't follow him at all. In five minutes, he reached the Martelli house and started pounding on the door as hard as he could. "Open up, please, it's Brian, let me in!" he cried out. The door slowly swung open. "Can I help you?" Mrs. Martelli stuck her head in the crack, looking apprehensive.
"OK, Mrs. Martelli, please, just bear with me on this," he rambled out, "My name is Brian Johnson, I am Matt's best friend, and we've..."
"I'm sorry, you must have the wrong address," she said, a strange pained look on her face as she started to shut the door.
"No, you're not going to put me through that too!" he pushed against the door with all his might and managed to force his way in, "I demand you let me see...!"
Another photo on the piano caught his attention-also for all the wrong reasons. It was one that had been taken with him and Matt on a fourth grade class field trip to Wrigley Field-only, as with back at his house, he wasn't in it. "Oh no, not that one too!" he whimpered, "No, please, don't tell me it's actually true!"
"Young man, I demand you leave at once!" she shouted at him, freaked out herself.
"Not until I talk to Matt!" he countered, "He's my best friend; I need him right now, so let me talk to him!"
Strangely, this caused Mrs. Martelli to completely break down in tears. "What!?" he demanded, "Why is that so hard for you to...!"
"You can't be Matt's friend," she cried hysterically, "He never had any friends. I wish you'd been here before it was too late..."
"What are you talking about!? Where is Matt; I demand you let me talk to him!"
"You can't," she sobbed, crumpling to the floor in her grief, "Matt's in the same place he's been for the last six years-Maple Park Cemetery."
The world seemed to abruptly close in around Brian. He almost collapsed himself, his head starting to spin. "It's not true!" he found himself screaming at the top of his lungs, "IT'S NOT TRUE!"
"I wish it wasn't true," Mrs. Martelli shook her head in misery, "But Matt shot himself to death when he was twelve. He didn't have any friends. I wish I'd seen the warning signs and stopped him...my precious son..." She sniffed loudly and looked Brian right in the eye. "If you don't believe me, Section Four, Row Eleven, Grave Twenty-two."
Without even realizing it, Brian found himself stumbling backwards away from the Martelli house and breaking into a run in the direction of the cemetery. A good part of him didn't want to look, but he knew he had to. And if it was true...but how could it be true!? Matt had loved life more than anyone Brian knew; no one had been funnier than his friend. How could it be possible...!?
In no time, he'd reached the cemetery. The gates were locked for the night, but the fence was low enough for him to hurdle. He stumbled through the rows of graves, having a general idea of Section Four's location, his maternal grandfather having been buried there last year. Of course though, he realized, it might well be impossible to see any tombstone through the blinding snow, even if it was right in front of him...
But then it caught his attention out of the corner of his eye, smaller than most of the surrounding tombstones and almost half covered in snow. He slid to an abrupt stop, very slowly turned towards it...and blinked desperately at it, hoping to somehow be mistaken. But there was no mistaking, even in the darkness of the cemetery, the large, stark letters spelling out MARTELLI near the top of the tombstone, and below them, the equally stark BELOVED SON MATTHEW RYAN. "No!" he gasped softly, his eyes wide in absolute horror, "No, it's not possible! It's just not possible!"
He frantically shoveled the snow away. But the tombstone laid out Mrs. Martelli's words as horrifyingly true; Matt had apparently now only lived to be twelve. "OH GOD NO!" he shrieked, collapsing against the tombstone and breaking down in tears himself, "PLEASE GOD, NOT MATT! ANYTHING BUT THIS, PLEASE! I DIDN'T MEAN FOR THIS TO HAPPEN! PLEASE GOD, BRING HIM BACK!" he tearfully looked up at the sky, "I DON'T WANT TO DIE ANYMORE! PLEASE, BRING ME BACK; I'LL GIVE YOU ANYTHING, ANYTHING TO PREVENT THIS! I'M SORRY, MATT!" he sobbed into the cold, heartless tombstone, "I'M SO SORRY...!"
Suddenly, without any warning, a skeletal hand horrifyingly shot up out of the ground and seized him by the throat. Before he could fully comprehend this terrifying occurrence, the entire ground rose up. Suddenly, he was face to face with a decomposing corpse with burning, hateful red eyes. "YOU KILLED ME!" it roared with an unearthly howl, pushing Brian backwards to the ground, "BRIAN...!"
"I'M SORRY, MATT!" Brian shrieked in carnal terror, trying desperately to break out of the grip as the corpse started shaking him violently, roaring his name over and over, "I DIDN'T MEAN IT, I DIDN'T KNOW...I'M SO SORRY...!"