If anyone were to ask me about the recent change I observed in Fletcher, I would surely struggle to find the right words. I knew there was a difference, I could both sense it and feel it; but I must say it is hard to describe to another. Perhaps it’s one of those things where you would have to be in my shoes, or see it from my perspective to know.
I guess I should start by saying that Fletcher was always an introverted fellow who kept to himself. Not that it ever seemed apparent to me that someone like Fletcher would ever require anyone else. Regardless I knew of his remoteness as he never had any sort of guests over, nor did he ever really speak on the phone. It was like he lived in his own world (whenever he was away from work at least).
Me and Fletcher were neighbors for 4 months, and not once did we ever actually interact. No conversation, no mutual acknowledgment, no eye contact, nothing. In fact, I am not even sure if he knew of my existence or even the fact that I lived next door. I shall choose not to dawn on it though, as it is quite an upsetting fact. A bizarre one too, as here I am worrying and pondering his body language and times of arrival, while he doesn’t know a thing about me.
But if someone were to ask me the change I observed in Fletcher, (and I was absolutely obliged to answer) I guess the words queer and abnormal fit.
Fletcher works down the road at the city’s hospital as a meticulous therapist, who only treats and meets those who are sufficiently affluent. He works Monday through Friday, and he always came home at the same time around 5:30. Somedays he would walk to his door humming happily, somedays he would be clearly exhausted, and somedays he would be holding takeout eager to get inside and eat. The awfully convenient thing about Fletcher was that he was the type of person to leave the blinds open. I assume it’s because he enjoyed the view, or maybe he enjoyed the natural lighting it allowed. I got a clear sight of Fletchers living room pretty much all the time, and there I’ve seen him do a number of things.
On many occasions he would sit on his couch with his legs propped up and his shoulders relaxed as he watched television. Such a sight was pretty uninteresting to see, and a common one too as all my other neighbors did the same thing. But what interested me about Fletcher, the thing that showed me his true brilliance, was all the other feverish hobbies he tended to indulge in.
Keep in mind here that other than monetary value and these hobbies, me and Fletcher were one and the same. Both of us are around the same age, both of us are single (me through divorce), and both of us lacked some sort of purpose. Except Fletcher had a purpose, which shined so bright that even I tasted hints of it.
Through my window I would watch the man play the guitar, or the trumpet, or his massive set of drums full of life and passion. I’ve seen the man sit in the Sun’s ray and read a book daily, I’ve seen the man pen in hand writing for long periods of time, I’ve seen the man dance to the fullest alone with music, I’ve seen the man paint full pictures on bare canvases. I’ve even seen the man sob dreadfully before wiping the tears and promptly infusing those emotions in some sort of art.
I was totally mesmerized. It was as if I was watching Dostoevsky write a novel, or Beethoven write music. He just seemed so alive, and everything he did was so fluid and oh so beautiful.
So, I hope you can clearly see why I formed an attachment with Fletcher, one much deeper than with any of my other boring neighbors. Whose lives were just filled with playing a part, one that they pretended to enjoy until they couldn’t any longer. Which is exactly why the apparent and sudden change in Fletcher struck me as so perplexing.
I can remember clearly the first variation from the picture-perfect reality. I myself was sitting on my couch watching a lovely documentary about Walt Whitman, when I heard the familiar sound of Fletchers car (a modest Chevrolet Impala).
What confused me however was the fact that it was only 4 PM, much earlier than Fletcher’s normal arrival time. On any other day I would not be watching television at Fletcher’s arrival, I would in fact be seated in front of my window starting at 5:20 just waiting.
I didn’t think too much of it though, as I paused the documentary and quickly moved to the window. He parked his car hastily and as he opened the door, I could immediately tell something was off. He was much paler than usual and his being had a hint of feebleness. His exhaustion and worry were clear, as I saw him look around at all his surroundings before scurrying into the front door. Upon entering the first thing Fletcher did was close his blinds, which was the first time in these 4 months that he ever did so. The once all seeing window was reduced to a blockade of white. It was a cruel act that put my mind into a wild thinking frenzy. Just what was up with my dear friend Fletcher?
I knew I had a massive bias due to my affection for Fletcher, but still my mind couldn’t help but consider a variety of scenarios. Had something occurred at work, had he gotten into a dispute with someone, was someone after him? Did he forget something at home, was he expecting a woman, did he take a day off early?
The ramblings I had proved to no merit, and eventually I told myself that I was in fact just being irrational. Most likely Fletcher had an upset stomach, or some other minor issue which caused him to come home early. He probably went to sleep immediately and closed the blinds in his deliriousness. Although I must admit, I did think for a spilt second that his mind wavered over his Divine Right, that maybe he finally opted for the choice. I knew better though; I knew he wouldn’t. Not Fletcher.
So, I went to bed unsatisfied for the first time in a while. I made sure to take double the sleeping pills I usually did and I set extra alarms at my regular 8:30 time to make sure I woke up to see him off for work. The alarms proved unnecessary as I woke up with little difficulty. My being was just so eager to see Fletcher and to alleviate whatever worries that had arose from yesterday’s fiasco.
I sat at the window and waited, but 9 came and there was no sign of him leaving. By now he was surely late for work, and my mind actually accepted that he was just not going to work or even outside today. But at around 10:30 I saw him come out, with full sleep garments on looking even worse than yesterday. He seemed on edge, and all he did was look at his surroundings before moving his car from his driveway into his garage.
At this point I remember sitting at my desk and slamming my head on it in exasperation. This behavior was so unlike Fletcher, and just so confusing. He had never missed work before, or placed his car into his garage. Something had to have occurred, I knew that for certain but just what?
And as troubling as the situation was, it was also just so compelling. If only his blinds were still open, then everything would be perfect. I could see a distressed Fletcher, and be enlightened by how an actual human copes with adversity. I ached to see him write, or draw, or dance, or sing, once more with his newfound obstacles. I wished to feel the onslaught of emotions I knew he was feeling, as part of the cost of being alive is accepting all the negative along with the good. I had seen the good many times, and I knew the bad would be just as marvelous.
That day I found it very hard to focus on my writing, and sentences lacked their usual cadence. It was just my luck for my wretched boss to email me such a troublesome task today, 15 motivational greeting cards. My job pays well and I always had some talent with prose, but sometimes it’s hard not to hate it. It’s such an artificial task, to come up with phrases and lines you don’t even believe in false hopes that it could possibly brighten someone’s mood.
But somedays I think it might be a noble profession, one up there with there with the rest. The line between death and life is just so thin. Maybe someone gifting another a simple but weighty sentence is enough to keep one over. Maybe one should realize the irrationality in trying to be happy all the time, and thus these cards give people the ability to be happy just sometimes. Or maybe these cards are just the tragic product of the inability for many like myself to express true sentiments.
Luckily my writers block mattered not, as the quality of the cards were not nearly as important as fitting the assigned quota. I reused and reworded many of my previous lines, but I still added a few new ones to satisfy myself. “You always have the choice, why waste it now, The World is Yours!” or a particularly dreadful one. “Do not fear failure, just chase your dreams!”
After I finished, I actually wished I had more cards to write, as an intense feeling of boredom followed. Even the television held no interest for me. I just angled my chair from in front of my TV to Flecther’s window staring at his closed blinds. I didn’t even peek on a single one of my other neighbors, they didn’t matter anymore. I just had to crack the case on Fletcher.
My imagination was lit on fire as I pictured so many vivid scenarios of what Fletcher was doing. Knowing the type of person he was, I just knew it would be something extraordinary, a tale for the ages. It was like I was the artist and the blinds my white canvas. I even went to sleep on my sofa chair, staring at the white window till my eyes closed and I saw black.
The next day came and passed similarly, except this time Fletcher didn’t come outside for anything. I could see through the blinds that his lights were still off, and I saw no evidence that showed any change or movement. I disregarded work today completely, as I emailed my boss saying I was miserably sick. He gave me lenience saying take as much time as you need, since that was the first day I had pretty much ever missed. I remember feeling so utterly helpless, I was stuck to the mercy of Fletcher and what he decided to emit out of his house.
The idea of going down to his front door and demanding answers came to my head, but it was more of a compelling fantasy then anything. I was much too scared of that. I didn’t know how I would handle myself conversing with Fletcher, and I wouldn’t want to interrupt him with whatever he was going through. He closed his blinds and even though to him it was probably a nonchalant action, to me it was him asking for privacy in this situation.
So, I stayed in my chair eyes glued to the blinds and I waited. The third day passed, as did the fourth, and the fifth.
He never came outside to toss his trash, he never came to check his mail, he never came out for even a second. By then my curiosity and excitement had morphed into a dreadful feeling, as I certainly missed Fletcher. I was worried, I couldn’t avoid the possible truth much longer. Had Fletcher really done it? But the idea of that occurring was so absurd, too absurd. Not Fletcher, he could never do something like that. The Divine Right is for those who yearn for freedom and have no hopes for reaching it otherwise. Birds don’t yearn to fly as birds can fly already, and Fletcher had no clipped wings. He had the purest and fullest wings of all.
I decided that I was tired of feeling helpless, or being irrational. I was going to try and find the reasoning myself, instead of waiting for it to come to me. Fletcher’s privacy wasn’t my worry anymore, five days is more than enough of exile.
I sat there and considered my options, as I brainstormed a variety of things I could do. I thought of dressing as a delivery man with a fake package and knocking on his door, or I thought of sneaking up to his bedroom window at night and glancing through. But once again I was much too fearful, and I convinced myself that I shouldn’t upset Fletcher just because I am capable of having such outlandish ideas.
Eventually I actually came up with a rational idea, which immediately took over my thirst for adventure. I decided I would just head down to the hospital and ask for an appointment with Fletcher. I assumed they would tell me that he was on leave, and I could get a return time or maybe even a number. The only problem was I lacked a car, (as I sold my wife’s) and I lacked any friends who could possibly take me there. I opted on calling an Uber or some sort of transportation service, but the idea of sitting by strangers in such proximity was nauseating.
I had to do something about Fletcher though, so I opted to walk. It is only around 2 miles away, as my area has many hospitals at a reasonable distance. The city also paid good money for new sidewalks to be paved, so it was surely a feasible route. I got ready and left immediately, wanting to waste no more time as so much had been wasted already. Once I got outside I noticed the Sun seemed extra bright, but maybe that was because it had been so long since I had seen it without a window between us. I started my drudging pilgrimage, fueled by my desire to know the truth.
After around an hour I actually made it there, soaked in my sweat and utter dehydration. I entered two of the hospital’s numerous giant doors, as its dreary colors automatically contrasted the weather outside. I hate hospitals, I always have. They terrify me, it’s like I can feel the waves of anxiety and anguish cling to my form whenever I go there. I get intimated, especially for the power they hold. The ultimate starting point and destination for the cycle of life.
The hospital is separated into two sections, the right-side being therapy and psychological care, and the left side being physical care. The therapy section had considerably more people, and it was just my wretched luck to have to go that way. There were three large front desks with three nurses each attending to a long line of people. I opted for the one on the far right, as I tagged along to the back and awaited my turn.
The nurse was a fair woman who seemed nice enough, but I remember trembling from my nervousness. You see I struggle with conversation sometimes, but I couldn’t afford to be scared then. I had come so far; I could do a little more.
After fifteen long minutes that seemed more like an hour, it was finally my turn. I stepped forward in front of the desk and stared into the nurse’s blue eyes which were already full of annoyance and apathy.
“Hi, how can I help you?” she said. Her face morphed into a forced friendly smile, while her eyes stayed the same.
“Uh, an appointment.”
“Would you like to book an appointment?”
I nodded and flinched as I saw her shake her head before typing on her computer.
“Have you in the past month seriously considered enacting on your Divine Right?”
I shook my head slightly.
“Okay, I can sign you down with Dr. Edwards then, what is a day you are free?”
No, not Edwards I need to meet Fletcher. Now I can say these words to myself clearly, but then they just wouldn’t come through my lips. I wasn’t even able to respond with my body language.
“Hello sir. Ugh.”
She then shook her head dejectedly again not even bothering to hide it, before going back to her computer.
“Are you free three days from now on the 9th at 3:00 PM?”
I felt so stunned, as if my chest had swelled to three times its original size and weight. It felt like a snaked had wrapped itself around my throat repeatedly, and any effort to change that just tightened its hold. I was completely frozen, from head to toe.
The nurse however took my silence as a sure yes, as she muttered “great see you then” before ushering to the person behind me. He roughly tapped my shoulder which caused me to shriek, but luckily also awoke me from my “paralysis.”
My mind was a speeding locomotive on the walk back, especially since by now the Sun was losing its daily battle. If this was actually a quest, then I surely failed. My futility hurt, but I am someone who is used to failure. Dejection causes one to eventually accept their shortcomings, for just how many times could I be disappointed in myself.
But I had to do something, I kept pounding that idea in my head. Maybe Fletcher needed someone’s help, or maybe Fletcher could use my presence the same way I desperately required his. I had to get over myself, if not for my good then Fletchers good.
As I entered the neighborhood, so did the stars which I took as a divine sign that I was doing the right thing. I decided the fairest and most effective plan would be to peak through his window. I just had to see what he was doing in there. I was ninety percent sure I would just see him sleeping, but even that was necessary for my raging torment.
I walked up to the sidewalk that connected our two houses, before taking a deep breath and going towards his house. I tiptoed to his back window slowly in my irrational fear that someone would see or hear me. As I was about to peer inside, I was besieged by such a pungent and awful smell. A smell that is familiar to all, but each time just as dreadful. You can’t get used to such a thing; its nauseating aroma does not belong on this Earth.
I ran to his front door, and started banging on his door. I didn’t care if the neighbors heard, or if the whole world did. I wanted them to, I wanted everyone to be here with me. To be here when Fletcher opened the door both annoyed and frightened. For him to confess that the smell was a failed dinner attempt, or some sort of clogged toilet, or a dead wife. For him to smile and apologize for the misunderstanding. I wanted everyone to assure me that my reality was a reality for all, and that my insanity played no part in what I saw.
But the door never opened; I was banging on nothing but hollow. No matter how hard I hit it, no matter if I started trying to kick the door down. I ran back to the window and picked up a scenic rock and tossed it at the window. It didn’t even break the first time, as I screamed in my despair before throwing it again as hard as I could.
I climbed through the window, as the odor knocked me back. I covered my nose with both my hands and moved around in the dark trying to find the light switch. Once I found it his living room appeared before my eyes, looking just as it always did from my window. His drums were still in the corner, his guitar was still leaning against the wall, his notebook was still open on the table. Except he wasn’t there with them.
The following parts are hard for me to describe, for such intense suffering coursed through me the second I saw him. Sprawled across his bed, body dead as could be. It looked like he had been this way for days, as if this whole time he was in here lying lifeless, as I was outside lying to myself.
And there I sobbed, oh how I sobbed. I was still sobbing when the police came, and I was still sobbing when I laid in bed that night. Oh poor Fletcher! Oh poor I! What must I do with myself now that you are gone.
I spent the next three days after that stuck in my bed. I didn’t cry again; in fact, I felt this sense of numbness. As if my entire psyche had taken a powerful painkiller. I did nothing but think of Fletcher, but only the happy moments. I didn’t think of the past week, or especially that night. But I thought of all the times I had seen him happy and full of life. The memories brought me joy, sure feeble amounts that were nowhere near enough, but even mere drops of water are so precious to one in a desert.
I hope you can now see what I meant when I said it was difficult to explain, as even now I am still clueless. I returned to work yesterday, but by no means have I recovered or gotten over any of it at all. The biggest problem is that I lack solace, mostly because I lack answers. How could Fletcher tumble the same way everyone else tumbles? I mean the idea of Fletcher giving up, it just made no sense to me. Was he always susceptible, or did something happen that made it so.
I keep trying to scavenge through my memories and to try and make sense of things, as now I know the end result. Fletcher was scared and he was checking all his surroundings, which makes me think someone was after him. But who, who could it possibly be. The police already marked it as a suicide, and I bet that verdict for them is almost unchangeable because technically it was a suicide. But there is more I know there is more, the question is what.
Now the blinds are open and Fletcher is gone, and so is my closure. I wonder just how long it would have been till anyone noticed his death if not for me, or how long I would have starred at his window deluded.
I hear commotion outside and have for the past fifteen minutes, but my curiosity finally gets the best of me as I get off my computer and peak through my blinds to see. An ample crowd how appeared outside Fletcher’s house. Now fully intrigued I open my blinds and see people entering and exiting the house. I realize a house sale is occurring.
Whenever someone enacts on their Divine Right, their property and belongings go to family or whoever they designated in their will. Whenever one has neither specific instruction in a will, or any relatives, the sale goes to the community (and the money to the government). Oh Fletcher, you weren’t alone I was with you these past months.
I grab my coat and go outside to join in the sale. I am not sure what exactly I wish to buy, but I want something like a memoir to remember and honor Fletcher with. Most of his furniture is already gone, as people tend to be hungry vultures, especially when everything is at a discounted price. I see a disgusting teenager grab his guitar, who for sure shall disrespect the beautiful sounds Fletcher once emitted with it.
I rummage through boxes in an effort to find something that shall suffice. I find Fletcher’s phone, or even a customized pack of cards with his name, but it’s not what I am looking for. I guess it’s a foolish goal to have, but I wish for something to call out to me. For me to see it and think that it is surely just what am I looking for, the same way mindset I had about Fletcher.
Eventually I stumble upon a box that I open absentmindedly, only to be completely intrigued by its contents. It is filled with journals, over fifteen of them at least, each labeled with a certain three-month period and titled “Patients Log.”
Perhaps through this I could learn more about Fletcher. Maybe not the artistic and passionate Fletcher I so saw, but the Fletcher everyone else did. The important and valuable member to society, who labored to save lives, even if he had no one to save him.
The box including every journal was only five dollars, which I pay before running next door back into my house. I sit at my desk and open the first journal with the earliest date (July 1, 2012).
I read, and read learning and disregarding such miscellaneous facts about rich obtuse people who had nothing to do with Fletcher. The repulsive and vain who fret about the little discrepancies as if they were actual problems. I can’t believe this is Fletcher’s handwriting, it’s so dead and boring and nothing compared to the Fletcher I know.
There’s no point in me having these journals, they grant me nothing. I was foolish for even thinking that they could, or anything could. It’s impossible to preserve things, everything leaves and once it goes it never comes back. I know I am nothing but a neighbor who only knows Fletcher because I spied on him, but I saw the side of him no one else knew. If one has a side full of success and respect, and the other full of life and passion, then surely the latter is the real them. And that’s the tragedy of it all, because that part of Fletcher exists only through me, and I am nothing.
I pick up the first journal, as I grab the pages and start ripping them out. If he is erased then so should all of this. But then an idea strikes my head, as I scavenge through the books till I find the most recent one. (Feb 3, 2015) its starting date, which was only two months ago. I flip to the end of the book which features 100 blank pages, as I find the last page with writing.
His last patient was Nathaniel Davis, a 39-year-old married man who works as a dentist deep in the city. The page has not only his number but also his full current address. Other than that it is empty, as the meeting was scheduled for April 12, which was exactly 9 days ago. The same day Fletcher came from work early full of fear.
Immediately my mind concocts once again, as I think about all the things Nathaniel could have done to Fletcher. Maybe Fletcher owed him money and was threatened, maybe Nathaniel said he was going to hurt Fletcher, maybe Nathaniel came in the middle of the night and killed Fletcher.
Nathaniel, I had to see Nathaniel. It was clear that he held the answers for me, the same way it was clear that the journal held the answers for me. In fact, all my time spent with Fletcher seems to be the first time in life where I feel like I am following some sort of destiny. As if it was meant for us to be neighbors, all the way up to meeting Nathaniel, and who knows what after.
I eye his number, maybe this time it would be better if I call first.
I ring (417-213-5326) and wait for the bell to go off. It rings once, as I hear my heart thump hard during the interval of silence. It rings a second time, and a third before someone answers on the other line.
“Hello” says a male voice.
“Nathaniel?”
“Yes, who are you?”
I stare at my phone, as it shakes in my hand.
“Hello? Hello?” he says
A few seconds pass as I hear the line cut. I stare at the phone in disbelief, as I try ringing him up again.
“Hello, hello Nathaniel come back please. Nathaniel I am sorry. Hello! Hello! God dammit.”
I call him a third time, a fourth, and a fifth. On my sixth try the phone actually rings, but he still doesn’t pick up. I chuck my phone against the wall as hard as I can, as it makes a large thud. The case protects it from most of the blow, as it hurts my wall more then it hurts itself. I stomp on it once, twice as the phone cracks a little. Not enough to satisfy me.
I head into my kitchen and ravage through my drawers, not even bothering to close them after. I push aside knifes and other utensils till I find a meat cutting hatchet. I take it with me as I angle it over my phone and slash down repeatedly.
Why, just why?
Adrenaline courses through my body, as I push my failure out of my system. I want to cut Nathaniel down. I know it was him, Fletcher would never do such a rancid thing. He was beautiful, he found the beauty in life and immersed himself fully into it. His singing expressed his voice, his dance expressed his body, his writing expressed his soul. He was alive and free and whole. He was like the wind who swept through my life and captivated my being. He was a sprouting flower in tiled land, he was an oasis in an arid desert. I can’t bring that back, but I can eradicate the vermin that infected him.
I plug his address into my computer checking its distance. It’s twenty minutes away, and that being in a car. Unless I opt to walk through the highway, there is no way for me to get there on foot.
I tighten my grip on the hatchet as I harden my resolve. I’ll have to call an Uber and get there that way. I look at my phone which is now shattered in pieces on the floor. I groan and grab my forehead. I live in the depths of the suburbs, and there is no public transportation anywhere near here. I shut my computer down before shutting off my lights and sitting on my bed. I pick up my hand and slap myself hard on the face. I marvel at the sting, as I do it again and again.
Why can’t I ever do anything with myself, each time I avoid something it just hurts me in the end. I know this but I do it anyways and then I avoid the consequences as they pile up on me. I am tired of that, enough is enough. I shall not let the world bring me down to such an extent, I shall avenge the pure and eliminate the sinful.
I get up and head into the kitchen once more as I grab a screwdriver and my hatchet before going outside. A steady rain has picked up, and I forgot my jacket but I continue on in fear that I might change my mind. I look down the street of my cove and see there are four cars parallel parked. A green hummer of the Smith’s family, a black Civic of the Jones’s family, a red Toyota SUV of the Wells’s family, and a Honda Accord that Goodwin owns. I know Goodwin, he’s a single man who works as a clerk at the local grocery store. I hope the police can return his car to him afterwards.
I look around the street, which is heavily blinded due to the night and pouring rain. I approach the car’s window before turning my hatchet over to its blunt end and smacking the window with as much force as I can muster. The impact hurts my hand, but the window seems perfectly fine. I hit it again and receive similar results, so I angle my attack near the edge of the window. This time the blow seems more promising, as I do it once more trying to power it with all my anguish. The window shatters, as I quickly put my hand through and unlock the door.
I take my screwdriver and quickly screw off the steering wheel cover. The process is a familiar one to me, as I work through the wires and try to ignore the memories that flash through my mind. I hear her excited but agitated laughter as we try to steal a car just like this, but then she was cheering me on and I felt less afraid.
The vehicle turns on, as I peel off the wire of the ignition, trying to ignore my shaky hands. I bring the bare wire to the battery wire, but I see her face once more. This time she leans in for a kiss, as we celebrate our successful theft of the car.
Everything goes black for a second, until I come to with burning pain coursing through my hands. I push on the accelerator and hitch forward, as I attempt to steer the car. Ah, my hands feel like they are on fire, but it feels so good.
I lean my head on my left shoulder, as I just use muscle memory to leave the neighborhood. I merge onto the highway, and cruise the car as I try to relax. My body is so eager right now too eager. I can’t just kill Nathaniel, I must question him first about Fletcher and ask him why. And ask him how, and what, and every other little detail because I deserve that, and so does Fletcher.
I turn into Nathaniel’s neighborhood, as I drive trying to find house number 898. I am in the 600s right now, so I take a left and enter the next street. I see blaring cop lights and ambulances now down the road, as I drive towards the noise; my curiosity forsaking my vengeance for the time being. Goodwin’s wipers do their best, but all I can see is blue and red lights and police officers outside.
I exit the car and I see a woman on the floor wailing in anguish, as she pounds on the chest of a dead man. While all the officers are slowly approaching a man who seems in no mood to run. He stands in the rain with his head titled up, and his eyes closed. He looks at peace, as if he was enjoying the onslaught of rain.
The officers move closer slowly with their guns lowered, as they seemingly attempt to calm him down. He opens his eyes, and I can see immediately that it is far too late. His eyes roll back, before he falls down to the floor, dead just like that.
The woman’s screams get even louder, as she cries a name. I can’t quite make it out so I move even closer.
“NATHAN! NATHAN NO, NATHAN!”
She sobs, as I stop in my tracks. The woman looks up to the sky, before her eyes roll back and she too falls dead right on top of Nathaniel.
I stare at them, their two bodies mingled into one. They actually look beautiful, like two tragic lovers who could swallow the uncertainty of death, but not the idea of being parted.
I fall to my knees right there in the rain as I close my eyes and for once I let the memories come.
Thinking of the first time I saw her, and all the things she made me feel. A burning passion, a vigor that powered me through it all. Like I had found a purpose, like I had found an answer to the question that had plagued my mind for so long. Could there be meaning in a thing such as life, in which it could end at any moment? What was stopping me from choosing death each and every second, why should I not choose something that shall choose me anyways?
With her, oh with her it all made sense. I didn’t want to die; I didn’t even want to waste a second! How can something be meaningless when it allows you the potential to feel that way, to feel so infinite. Something which arouses your being and awakens your soul. For once I was alive in life, and for once I wanted to continue being alive forever. But even she could keep the stormy clouds away for only so long.
Why did you have to leave me, why did you have to go?
It was selfish of you to, you left me here all alone with just your wretched memory. But even that too left me, and then I was just alone with myself. And I hate myself, you knew that better than anyone, and you left anyways.
Fletcher, you left me too, everyone just leaves me. You were perfect Fletcher, you were enough for me to forget myself and to just indulge in you. I forgot my hate, I even was able to forget my love. How though, why did you leave. Could Nathaniel have even killed Fletcher, if Fletcher died by his own choice?
But then just what does it even mean to kill a man?
Fletcher chose to die, but what made him choose to die. What sucked the soul out of a lively being, what crushed the beautiful star and all its brightness. Why did Fletcher give up, why did Claira give up.
Ahhhhhh.
I stare to the heavens, as I close my eyes. Maybe now I can finally find some peace.
But why should I receive closure?
I know the reality that dawns over me, but I know the reality is much too much for me to accept. But now as I dangle over death itself, reality crumbles and reality emerges.
I should have heard her pleas, I should have been more attentive. Her love for me was everlasting, but mine lost the fight to my perpetual misery. I didn’t choose to turn out this way, I didn’t want to be a cursed man who could do no right. I didn’t choose to lose you in the raging storm of my mind. I thought if I lost you I could find myself, and then we could truly be complete. I could be free with you, I could be like the jubilant soul you were.
But the truth is when I lost you, I lost myself, and there is no way to bring either of us back. I hate myself for what I did to you, but yet I am selfish and I hate myself for what I did to me.
The tears come as they become on with the rain and I drown in my head.
“I love you Claira, I really do. I know I do, I always have. I always will.”
“Stop, stop just please stop. You keep saying that, but you never show me it. I am tired Hector; I am tired of feeling alone in my own home. You have shut yourself off and you have left me by myself.”
Her face is so broken, why can’t I fix it?
“You are always thinking about yourself, but just what about me!?”
“Hector I know life has been hard to you, and I wish I could take that away. But I can’t and neither can you. You can’t keep ignoring everything, you can’t keep ignoring me. I told you that I would be with you every step of the way, but you have pushed me away and yourself!”
“Leave me alone. Please.”
She holds on to my trembling form as I cry, and as she stays strong for me just as she always does.
“Get off of me. Get off of me!”
She lets go and her eyes turn frightened, and to think that such a sight is directed towards me.
“I hate you, I hate you Claira! I can’t love you anymore, I can’t even look at you. Leave me, leave me.”
I sit on the couch as I hold my face in my hands as I hear Claira tear stricken grabbing her car keys and her purse. I don’t even bother to look up as she walks to the door.
“End me Lord, for I enact on my Divine Choice.”
Pulverize my brains Lord.
