Forever Ain't Enough

Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Camile

I always used the back door when going to his house. It was never locked, and if it happened to be, I knew how to unlock it from the outside. Lucky me, I didn't even need to try that night. The door was slightly open when I got there. I let myself in and stepped into the kitchen. I had been there so many times I could make my way through the house with no lights on. I knew every corner of every room, the same way Jay-Jay knew everything about me.

We did not have a perfect childhood, we did not have it easy growing up. But I would never trade what we had. It was ironically perfect. It really did not matter what we could have gone through, all I cared about was, we went through it together. We created worlds in our minds we could escape to together. We created memories and had adventures trapped between four walls. We covered drunk screams with music, healed each other's wounds with love. His presence brought light to any room, and with him gone, there was no lamp strong enough to brighten my days.

I walked into his room with my arm extended, softly stroking his stuff with my hand. The lights were still off, but the moonlight was strong enough for me to recognize everything inside his room. There were plenty of things still lying around, but it somehow felt empty. The most important part was gone after all.

His bed was still there. You don't really need to take your dead son's bead with you to another state. His closet was pretty full, apparently, I was the only psycho holding onto his clothes. Most of his drawers were still filled with random things. I couldn't blame her for not wanting to take everything back to Connecticut. I had a breakdown from seeing his toothbrush on my sink. I could not have handled finding his shoes somewhere in my house.

His room was always messy. But he somehow knew exactly where and how everything was laid out. He could find anything he needed with his eyes closed. I sometimes got overwhelmed with the never-ending notebook stacks and papers he had on his desk. Or the ever-growing stack of clothes on his chair. He explained to me multiple times his stacks made sense in his head, but would always start organizing as soon as I mentioned it.

He was selfless like that. Even if it did not make sense to him, he would do stuff because it made sense to me. His bed was in the middle of the room and not next to a wall because I once told him how trapped I felt when sleeping next to a wall. His books were organized by length and not author because I mentioned how ugly they looked not being the same height. He started hanging his sweaters instead of folding them so I could reach them easily and wouldn't complain about his messy folding skills. His sheets were white because I liked them that way. His touch was firm, because I needed it to be. His voice was soft, just so he could comfort me. His heart was strong when mine was weak. His grasp was steady so I would't fall. His mind was kind when mine was hurtful. I can't begin to explain how much he helped me through the years. How much he did for me.

Sitting in his lonely bed, I could see him holding me while I fell apart. Talking to me about love. Shedding tears while holding my arms. Hurting more than even I did when I let him know I had hurt myself again.

Sitting lonely in his bed, with his hoodie covering my wounds, I could see him telling me it was going to be okay. Telling me I did not need to keep on doing this. Reminding me it did not help in any way. I knew it did not. I felt ashamed afterward, I felt guilty and promised myself never to do it again. And I could stop at times, until sadness overwhelmed me, and I lost control. He would have been proud to see I finally stopped for good when I went to therapy. He would have been happy to see I healed enough to recognize how bad of a coping mechanism self-harm was. He would have been glad to see I could ask for help when I needed it.