Six months ago, he killed himself. Legally.
And only a few weeks ago, his soul died. His heart—his best friend, James.
The Watson to his Holmes. The Wilson to his House.
Right in his arms, on a cold November night. He didn't know if he should've cried and brought James closer to his arms and muttered an unspoken confession, one that still ran around his brain. They took him away way too quickly, but he couldn't protest; James was a Jew, and he had to be laid to rest under the dirt within 24 hours of his passing. He was an atheist, who never believed religion, he who mocked those whose faith settled in uncertain hands, their so-called saving grace as a way to cope. But he's never mocked him just like he did with everyone else. His best friend accepted him for who he is, despite the annoyance he felt towards him sometimes. He'd do the same, because James was his saving grace—as much as he hated admitting it.
The sun was glaring as he exited his apartment for the first time since the last few weeks. It burned his skin, even if he wore a coat for the cool autumn air. It felt like it was beaming just on him, the ache of his limbs doing nothing to relieve him of his pain.
His loss,
His suffering.
He's dead, anyway.
Why would anything even matter?
Even if it did, he's thrown away everything. For James.
But now, James is gone. He hobbled along the sidewalk, clutching his leg as pain shot up from it—as if it was a sign that he shouldn't be doing this. He should be cooped up in his apartment, relishing in the remainder of what would be his best friend. He could have finally touched the blankets that lay on his couch messily ever since he heard him take the last breath, the medicine that littered his coffee table, the half-filled cup of water beside them.
No, he won't do that.
It was the only thing that remained of him.
He reached a crosswalk, the pain in his leg making his vision hazy. He could've drank more painkillers, but it wouldn't get rid of the hurt in his heart. Even if the sun shined harshly, it would never pierce through the darkness of his soul. The void he has become was one he accepted. Because who was he, without James? He doesn't even exist anymore, his name redacted in black bars on every single government file. But nobody would know in the middle of this crowded crosswalk.
Or, he was extremely wrong.
Time had seemed to pause. His breath hitched, his lungs contracting as if the air was poison. His pulse rose, one he could hear in his ears—despite his attempts of covering it up and brushing it off. His eyes trained on one thing, his vision tunneling. It might've been because of the painkillers, but they weren’t, no.
No…
Those eyes. Eyes that held warmth, glee, and every single other emotion he couldn't bear to name. His leg started to hurt, the pain shooting up to his heart. Sharp, but he still stood even if he wished it killed him. That stance, that body he's got to hold in its final moments. He was suffocating, his heartbeat rampant against his ears; everything else continued around him, but the entity that stood on the other side of the road seemed to freeze in itself, its face obscured by the blurry, crossing crowd, but those eyes met his.
His heart stopped.
The crosswalk had finally emptied, his vision clearing; For the first time in his life, he prayed. Muttering a prayer, that it was what he was thinking of. The pain in his leg had stopped, his lungs finally expanding. He had to do what he had wanted to do—he took another step, and started to sprint.
But time continued to tick, and he found himself looking up at the sky.
It felt warm around him, like he was floating on water. The sky was bright—he had just noticed that it was extremely, vividly blue. But then the sky darkened, tunneling around his field of vision. Inaudible chatter, but it didn't bother him. He was where he wanted to be, and he felt warm after those long, gruelling weeks. This… bed of water was awfully firm, and he started to see blue and red. No clue as to why, but he felt good.
A smile formed on his face, a thought forming in his head. The entity had those eyes. The same ones he yearned to see ever since he died. His lungs started to tighten again, but there was no heartbeat to distract him again. He swore his voice was hoarse, as he never spoke up in a while. But it was so awfully clear this time. His head started to spin, everything blurring around him. Before anything else could happen, he called out softly.
"James?"
And only a few weeks ago, his soul died. His heart—his best friend, James.
The Watson to his Holmes. The Wilson to his House.
Right in his arms, on a cold November night. He didn't know if he should've cried and brought James closer to his arms and muttered an unspoken confession, one that still ran around his brain. They took him away way too quickly, but he couldn't protest; James was a Jew, and he had to be laid to rest under the dirt within 24 hours of his passing. He was an atheist, who never believed religion, he who mocked those whose faith settled in uncertain hands, their so-called saving grace as a way to cope. But he's never mocked him just like he did with everyone else. His best friend accepted him for who he is, despite the annoyance he felt towards him sometimes. He'd do the same, because James was his saving grace—as much as he hated admitting it.
The sun was glaring as he exited his apartment for the first time since the last few weeks. It burned his skin, even if he wore a coat for the cool autumn air. It felt like it was beaming just on him, the ache of his limbs doing nothing to relieve him of his pain.
His loss,
His suffering.
He's dead, anyway.
Why would anything even matter?
Even if it did, he's thrown away everything. For James.
But now, James is gone. He hobbled along the sidewalk, clutching his leg as pain shot up from it—as if it was a sign that he shouldn't be doing this. He should be cooped up in his apartment, relishing in the remainder of what would be his best friend. He could have finally touched the blankets that lay on his couch messily ever since he heard him take the last breath, the medicine that littered his coffee table, the half-filled cup of water beside them.
No, he won't do that.
It was the only thing that remained of him.
He reached a crosswalk, the pain in his leg making his vision hazy. He could've drank more painkillers, but it wouldn't get rid of the hurt in his heart. Even if the sun shined harshly, it would never pierce through the darkness of his soul. The void he has become was one he accepted. Because who was he, without James? He doesn't even exist anymore, his name redacted in black bars on every single government file. But nobody would know in the middle of this crowded crosswalk.
Or, he was extremely wrong.
Time had seemed to pause. His breath hitched, his lungs contracting as if the air was poison. His pulse rose, one he could hear in his ears—despite his attempts of covering it up and brushing it off. His eyes trained on one thing, his vision tunneling. It might've been because of the painkillers, but they weren’t, no.
No…
Those eyes. Eyes that held warmth, glee, and every single other emotion he couldn't bear to name. His leg started to hurt, the pain shooting up to his heart. Sharp, but he still stood even if he wished it killed him. That stance, that body he's got to hold in its final moments. He was suffocating, his heartbeat rampant against his ears; everything else continued around him, but the entity that stood on the other side of the road seemed to freeze in itself, its face obscured by the blurry, crossing crowd, but those eyes met his.
His heart stopped.
The crosswalk had finally emptied, his vision clearing; For the first time in his life, he prayed. Muttering a prayer, that it was what he was thinking of. The pain in his leg had stopped, his lungs finally expanding. He had to do what he had wanted to do—he took another step, and started to sprint.
But time continued to tick, and he found himself looking up at the sky.
It felt warm around him, like he was floating on water. The sky was bright—he had just noticed that it was extremely, vividly blue. But then the sky darkened, tunneling around his field of vision. Inaudible chatter, but it didn't bother him. He was where he wanted to be, and he felt warm after those long, gruelling weeks. This… bed of water was awfully firm, and he started to see blue and red. No clue as to why, but he felt good.
A smile formed on his face, a thought forming in his head. The entity had those eyes. The same ones he yearned to see ever since he died. His lungs started to tighten again, but there was no heartbeat to distract him again. He swore his voice was hoarse, as he never spoke up in a while. But it was so awfully clear this time. His head started to spin, everything blurring around him. Before anything else could happen, he called out softly.
"James?"
J
Written by Jel, Insight PH
Jel, Insight PH is a dedicated campus journalist and contributor. Their insightful writing sparks meaningful conversations and keeps the community informed.
