Short Story -- 2007
He'd been sick for months. I just never expected God to take something so precious; the only thing that made the future a little brighter. I never thought He'd completely turn the light out on me. Though sometimes it felt close to darkness, Christian was always the dim glow at the end of the tunnel that kept me reaching- slowly getting me by, day by day. But now, as my feet flew from underneath me and over the dead autumn leaves, it was so black in my mind that I couldn't tell up from down. For that mystery alone I kept running. I was too weak to do anything else.
The trees were the beautiful, brilliant colors of fall - Vermont
Twigs snapped and cracked beneath me as my feet thudded on the ground and there was the faint buzz of a woodpecker nearby, but the near-silence was almost more than I could bear. I sobbed harder and ran faster.
It felt as though I was running toward the light, but I couldn't quite find it. I knew just where this trail led. Though I wasn't sure if that's where I wanted to be going, it was where I needed to be. I did not need to stay on the path much longer, I knew; it would soon come to an end, opening up to my destination. I even recalled walking down this trail with him, so close... We thanked God together that He'd blessed us with each other; that we were best friends. The odd-colored rock, where we sat and looked at the sky countless times, flew by me in a copper blur but the memories remained clear as day. I couldn't stop- I had to keep running. He'd promised on dozens of occasions that he would take me four-wheeling on this very path, in the middle of the woods, and I'd rejected just as many. He knew my fear of four- wheelers was almost the equivalent of my fear of death- I was terrified, and he understood about little Emily. My childhood best friend, killed in an accident on the same piece of machinery. But he wanted to help me get over it...said he wouldn't let anything happen to the two of us. He would do anything to make me happy; he did not want me to be afraid.
But still he could not prevent the endless nightmares; the visions that flashed through my head while I slept. Though I hadn't been there to witness the accident, still I could see the vehicle, slipping off the side of the ravine...little Emily, being crushed under the weight of it. The whole incident was so unfair; I still cannot imagine how her father must feel, coming out with barely a scratch. He was the one who took her out- though she resisted, he insisted. He must feel so responsible- that's understandable. Feeling responsible for the death of someone you love can eat you up inside. Guiltily I remembered that after the incident, I hadn't so much as talked to her parents... I was too afraid; afraid of facing how much they hurt, along with me. Chris was always there, and he understood. He was always trying to protect me; shield me from anything suggesting fear.
What was there to be afraid of now, though? Certainly not death. I pulled the little bottle from my pocket and struggled- once, twice, three times- to remove the cap, finally released it, and poured a handful of tiny, round objects into my hand as my cheeks burned hotter, my eyes swelled puffier and my mascara ran blacker. Almost forgetting where I was, I started to slow down. I snapped back into reality once I saw the mud covering my shoes and the trees on each side of me. I knew I had to keep moving; subconsciously, my legs obeyed and I broke into a sprint. The pills he had convinced me to get so many weeks ago, when I'd first learned of his infirmity, sat in my palm.
Neither of us had ever liked to call me "sick." Though depression was an illness, it just didn't seem like the right word. He was always there for me, and he could see through the fake smiles and forced laughs that I displayed during the day. He was there in the middle of the night, when I would call him, sobbing, seeking relief from my pain. He would whisper to me, and tell me everything was going to be alright. Nothing was really wrong; I just felt so...hopeless, so small. Christian was the only one who could make me feel worth something. Although I was rarely happy, he never stopped trying to change it. He hated seeing me hurt, and finally persuaded me to tell my parents about my situation. From there, they sent me to a therapist who almost immediately prescribed me the tablets I now clutched in my fist. I hadn't been on them very long, but they didn't seem to be doing anything. All I knew was that they were extremely dangerous -fatal- if more than prescribed was ingested at a time.
Chris was so strong- much stronger than I ever was, and probably could be. In the beginning, he'd taken my hand in both of his and asked, "Jennifer Anne, are you afraid of me?”
I'd laughed, squeezed his hand and replied the answer he was expecting. He then asked if I ever would be. I remember getting nervous and pulling back slightly, but answering "No" for the second time. At that moment I recalled a tear slipping from his eye and onto my parents' suede couch. The next thing I knew my head was on his shoulder and I was crying too, while he told me about the white blood cells attacking his immune system; the disease we have all heard about... the one our friend's friend was diagnosed with a few years ago; the one we thought we knew could never happen to anyone close to us. That one word... leukemia. He painfully described the slim chance of his recovery but promised to pull through for me.
At first, the signs weren't so noticeable. But then, he started getting tired all of the time and lost a lot of weight. He dropped off the school basketball team, and would never be up to doing much of anything. All in all, he was pretty boring. Then, when he was admitted to the local clinic, we would play Spit (his favorite card game) or watch television in his all-white hospital room. I always bothered him about putting up some posters or something, because the room itself looked almost like heaven. It was too blank, too uniform. It didn't suit Chris at all.
Just then, I stumbled slightly over a large tree root in the middle of the path. While I caught my balance, I was reminded of the countless times I'd walked through here and stepped carefully over it. How had I missed it? I asked myself. I had been so careful before, and now it was as if there was nothing to be careful of. It doesn't matter if I fall, especially if I can't get back up, I thought. The funny thing was that I didn't really miss him- yet. It was probably just because it hadn't hit me so far, but suddenly I was disgusted with myself. I loved him, and now he was gone forever and I barely realized it; I was nostalgic and numb. I could hardly remember what his face looked like, and that scared me so much. The only thing I was concentrating on was wishing he could be with me again, and having him tell me the same reassuring words that I knew now I'd never hear again.
Christian had said, "You're my best friend, Jen. You'll never lose me. Together, we're infinite. I promise."
For the next month or two he continued to tell me that and to try to be strong, but by the third month he stopped promising us forever. We both knew it was too painful to hear.
But now, as I leapt over fallen branches while still clutching the antidepressants in one hand, I realized that the entire time he was sick I'd never thought he might actually leave. It never occurred to me that there was the possibility of losing the best and only thing I had left- the light. Things like that just didn't happen, I remember thinking as I watched my best friend pull through what seemed to be a winning battle at the time. The doctors even let Chris leave the hospital and return home during his state of remission. That was a mistake. It only allowed him to fall quickly (and fatally) ill again, for the last time.
I saw the place up ahead where the path opened into my destination, and good thing- the pills were starting to rub onto my hand, like the M&Ms we would eat on those countless hot summer days. Right before the end of the trail there was a small circle of black on the ground. I could not allow myself to look at it, for I knew how much pain that would cause. But that didn't prevent the vision of him and me, sitting beside the pile of ashes that was once there- a result of people burning their leaves and dumping them at this very place. A pile never fails to appear, year after year.
I remember the two of us there, at the edge of the woods and staring into the clearing. Christian had taken a handful of ashes on that beautiful autumn day (what would be two years next month that we visited this place) and rubbed it between his fingers.
"We will be buried, side by side," he told me. "If we spend our time alive together, it is only reasonable to do the same after."
I had whispered, "But which of us will die first?"
"It doesn't matter," he replied. "If I go before you do, I'll be waiting by the gates of heaven for you to join me." He then proceeded to draw a tiny black heart on my left wrist with the ash before we walked back home.
The ashes were long gone, but the reminiscence lingered.
***
The funeral had ended hours previous, so when I emerged from the trail (without giving a single glance at the barren, empty spot that had once been the ash) and jogged into the back of the cemetery, I was as relieved as possible to find it empty of all life. I slowly came to a halt in front of the freshly dug grave and bore my eyes into the name carved there in stone as well as in my heart. There was no sound but the faint, swirling wind in my ear and my heavy breathing, along with occasional, pathetic little sobs. I dropped to my knees almost automatically. I stayed like that, with my head in my hands, for who knows how long. After a while I gently lifted my face, the numerous prescription drugs still clutched in my fist. I brought that hand to my open mouth and tilted my head backward. It would be so easy, overdosing... But then I subconsciously let out a shrill, quick scream- completely contradicting my original plan, which would have gone smoothly and painlessly if not for what struck me just then.
My empty hand shot to the ground directly in front of the stone that read,
Christian Robert Tracy
15 years of age- forever youthful
Beloved grandson, son, brother, friend
As my eyes read over the very last word printed in the stone, a jolt was sent though my body and my hand dug deeper into the recently overturned soil. I then dumped the content of my other hand into the newly formed hole and buried it as fast as my shaking body would allow, sobbing loudly all the while. I stared at the place where I had just buried my suicide weapons. This was not how a friend would want a friend to go out, especially not a friend who loved you.
***
I stood up slowly, and glanced at the countless tombs surrounding me. My breathing had started to go back to normal, and I was no longer weeping. So many loved ones had been buried here, each significant to one person or another. In the future, most people would probably walk right past Chris's headstone without a second glance. I knew, though, that before me lay a savior. Someone who had the ability to save others, even if he couldn't salvage himself. How could I put that to waste? He devoted months at a time trying to rescue me, and I almost threw that all away. I promised him I'd make it; I'd be okay. Because of him, I knew I would be.
The fiery trees fluttered before me, and I knew they were doing the same behind me as well. I walked away without a single fleeting look over my shoulder. I could almost feel him, right behind me- standing atop my own little burial ground, right above his. I made my way back toward the path- toward the ashes. He was watching me go, and I could nearly tell he was smiling. His job was done. He knew I was going to survive.
