Introduction.
I fought again. And again I was defeated... and again I couldn't save him... I was so close... just a few seconds... but... I couldn't... As always. I was defeated again.
It's raining.
I watch my beloved's coffin being literally thrown into the ground. Where it belongs. As far away from me as I could possibly be from the dangers I could have caused him.
Still... I was supposed to protect him. I was supposed to be the one to promise him that nothing would happen because I was there. But it happened...
Again.
Watching Michael's body being dragged into the ground by the coffin for the tenth time, I feel a despair I've never felt before. Of course, I cried every time. Always. Regardless of the weather, the crowd, or anything else. No. I just cried like a damn child. But now... something has changed. Inside me.
Maybe I finally came to terms with the fact that I couldn't save him? Maybe, after all these setbacks, I realized that he had to die? Or was he and I a mistake?
I don't know the answer to these questions, but I do know one thing: I'm not crying now.
My eyes are watering, but they are too dry for even a single tear to come out of them.
"Michael Johansson was a wonderful man," I hear the priest’s voice, calm, almost too indifferent. "This guy was a pure, good, sincere friend, brother, lover." As the priest continues his speech, the sounds of several people sobbing can be heard.
I swallow hard, the saliva rising in my throat, which, like a knife, cuts it in half.
I want to cry, I have to cry... I have to cry.
I repeat these words to myself, like a mantra that would be my lifeboat, but I don’t express anything.
In my heart there is only inner dissatisfaction that I have not been able to save him again...
And the question: why?
"But such people are taken from us because they are too good for this cruel world." The priest continues speaking, as if this were a normal part of life for him. But it is ordinary and nothing special. "However, I can console you, my dears, that now Michael is in another, much better world, where he is safe and loved, because God is merciful. Therefore, everything remains only for you. Reconciliation. I hope that you will be able to come to terms with this loss and accept it as you would any other important thing in your history." The priest falls silent. The speech ends.
After a while, people begin to separate. Different emotions are visible on their faces: a shadow of guilt flickers in the eyes of some, complete self-contempt for others. And for others, it is simply history.
I don’t know how long I watch people leaving like this, but when I think that nothing is left, I approach Michael’s grave. And I stumble. Only then, when my knees touch the disgusting ground, tears appear in my eyes and I burst into tears.
It's all my fault, I blame myself in my mind, not even trying to wipe the pitiful-looking tears from my face, you should have lived, Michael, and I should have died. It's all my fault... it's always my fault, I keep blaming myself.
It's starting to rain even harder, but I'm not going to move from his grave. No. I'm going to stay here long enough to rot with him.
“He was a good man, wasn’t he?” comes a soft, motherly voice. I turn toward the sound and see an elderly woman standing in front of me.
Angela Johanson.
His mother stands calmly by her son’s gravesite while I cry pitifully. Feeling a little uncomfortable, I wipe my snot and stand up. Angela smiles at me.
“You were good friends, weren’t you?” she asks, as if she needs my approval, even though it doesn’t matter that we see each other every day.
“Yes,” I answer hesitantly, and she notices. She raises one eyebrow.
I look around. Only now do I notice that I can’t see her husband anywhere. She follows my gaze, laughing bitterly.
“My husband didn’t mean to come here,” Angela says. “He’s too… drowning in his own pain,” she explains.
“Maybe it’s time for me to go too.”
“No.”
“No?” I ask her. “I thought you wanted to be alone.”
“Dear Tyler,” she says my name with a pride you’ve never heard from your own parents. The woman puts her hand on my shoulder. “You can stay here as long as you want.” She says.
I nod silently.
I understand that I have to go, but I stop in mid-step.
“Why?” I ask, turning to Angela.
“What’s the reason?”
I step forward, trying to remain calm.
“Why do you always let me do this? You should be grieving more than anyone else. More than me.” The woman just shakes her head in understanding.
“I loved my son,” she begins, “but that doesn’t mean I’m the only one.” I frown a little, trying to grasp the significance of her words.
“How… understand?” she laughs again. But this time the woman’s laughter sounds genuine, not artificial.
"You loved him, right?" although her question sounds more like a statement than a question, I nod anyway.
“Yes,” I admit. For the first time, I feel ashamed for saying that. After all, they always believed that their son loved her, not me. After all, their perfect son couldn’t be… gay, right?
“I know,” I glance at the woman standing in front of me, confused.
“You know?” I ask her, as if I hadn’t heard the word correctly.
“Yes,” she repeats in a calm voice. “I always knew that you were more than a friend to my son.”
I think about her words.
For a few seconds, all you can hear is the falling drops, making a soothing sound as they hit the ground.
“Then why didn’t you stop our… well, I don’t know?”
She pauses for a moment, and then she says,
“Because you can’t stop true love. And you were definitely in love.” The woman says and starts to walk away.
"You’re wrong," I suddenly say, stopping her.
"Isn’t that so?" she narrows her eyes, turning back to me. Our eyes meet for a moment.
"True love is always defeated by death." I say this seriously, and an ironic smile appears on the woman’s face.
"Maybe," she agrees. "But remember, Tyler, even death cannot separate people who are made for each other. Even if one dies, the other will always remember him in their heart. And it doesn’t matter how many other people he or she has. Because true love is experienced once and it stays forever. It’s like a story that you never forget, no matter how hard you try." With these words, Michael’s mother turns and disappears into the shadows.
I think about her words for a long time, wanting to believe them.
Soon I take out the thing that I’ve been carrying in my pocket all this time.
It’s a small knife.
I reach for my neck and cut through my fragile skin...
I die...
And the cycle begins again...
And maybe...
Maybe this time I can save him?
Maybe now we'll get our happy ending?
