Mom walked into my room crying her eyes out. That's when I knew my day was going to suck. Mom never cried unless something absolutely terrible happened.
"Aeron," she sobbed, "Fletch is dead."
My mouth dropped open, a little keen escaping from my dry throat. Fletch, my boyfriend, my life, my light, was . . . dead? Gone? Forever? No, it was impossible!
I'd seen him just yesterday, and his Mom told me that he was getting better. She said that he might even be going into remission again. She said he would make it!
ISN'T THAT WHAT SHE'D FUCKING TOLD ME?! THAT HE WOULD MAKE IT?!
But he didn't.
He didn't make it.
She lied to me.
They both did.
Fletch told me that we would be together forever. There was no forever anymore, was there.
I nodded to Mom, unable to say anything. The space that'd had Fletcher Caulden's name on it in my heart slowly deteriorated, leaving a painful chasm. Falling back on to my bed, I let my anguished tears come silently. For hours and hours, it seemed, I wept into the sheets.
It's not like I wanted to do anything else. What was there to do, without him?
I stood up and wiped my eyes on the sleeves of my pajamas. As soon as my feet touched the ground, time seemed to flash past me, until I was suddenly standing in a long line. I looked down and realized that I was wearing a black dress, black heels and a pair of black lace gloves.
Confused and depressed, I didn't put two and two together. I just followed the gentleman - also clad in black - in front of me, until I reached a large casket and the wooden pew in front of it.
I was at Fletch's wake.
I could tell you that he looked peaceful, like he was just sleeping. I could tell you that I was happy he wasn't in pain anymore. I could tell you that I was okay after seeing my boyfriend in a coffin, dressed and ready to be covered with dirt.
I would be lying.
"Baby, I'm going to miss you so much," I whispered, "I really wish you didn't have to leave me so soon."
My eyes were glued to the sick blue color of a patch of skin the people at the funeral home had to neglected to paint the normal color. It was on his hand, right above the promise ring I'd given him.
He told me he'd never take it off.
At least he didn't lie about that.
My chest felt tight. The tears were coming again.
"I love you, Fletcher. I love you so much."
I glanced down to the identical ring on my own finger. Liquid pain spilled down my cheeks and on to my love's stone cold face.
Suddenly, I was angry with him for dying. I had never been so angry before in my entire life. I wanted to mutilate the corpse beyond recognition and throw the rest to wild animals. I wanted to yell, and I didn't care who heard me.
"YOU FUCKING SON OF A BITCH! WHY THE FUCK DID YOU LEAVE ME ALONE?!" I screamed at the top of my lungs.
Breathing was hard. Thinking about life without him was harder.
"WHY?! WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU DO THAT?!"
I couldn't take seeing him anymore. I tried to run away, but tripped on my heel and fell on my face.
A man with a moustache tried to help me up, tutting, "Oh, you poor thing."
I hauled back and punched him as hard as I could. His head swung to the side and his eyes widened in surprise. He bellowed something like, "STOP HER, DAMMIT!" but I still tried to scramble away. Someone held fast to my legs.
A sharp point bit into my calf. Suddenly I felt very tired. Gray swirled in front of my eyes and all my muscles relaxed against my will. Oh, crap, I thought. Sedatives. It was very hard to stay lucid, but I struggled against the overwhelming drowsiness. Eventually, though, I just couldn't fight anymore.
The last thing I thought before I blacked out was, I hope I die from an overdose on this shit. I didn't want to be forced to live without him. I couldn't live without him. I would never be the same.
Never be . . .
Never be the . . . Same . . .
"Never be the same," hissed Fletch's cracked, dead voice.
I shot up, screaming. Looked around my room. The calendar still said it was February eighth, the day Fletch died.
"Thank God," I sighed with a laugh, "It was all a dream."
At that moment, Mom walked in.
"Aeron," she sobbed, "Fletch is dead."
Nodding, I got up from my bed.
Shuffled down the hall into my parents room.
Dug the old pistol out of the closet.
Checked to see if there were bullets in the revolver.
I didn't know what would happen if I went through with it. I didn't know if it would hurt. But I did know that after it was done, I wouldn't have to see Fletch in that coffin again. I could quite possibly even be with him again.
Yes . . .
That would be nice . . .
I smiled, put the barrel in my mouth, and pulled the trigger.
[I put in the violent words. Does it make the story better?]
