Six Last Lessons

Prologue

Blood.

Blooming like a miniature, fragile flower on the white coverlet, his blood staining the fibres and spreading in an intricate web that resembled the fragile petals of a rose.

Roses were beautiful, the scent of the blossom often reminding me of many a summers evening spent sitting in the garden, a book in my hands, the wind blowing strands of fair hair astray, tickling my cheeks.

His blood, true scarlet as it blemished the pristine white cotton, had at some point run through his veins, providing life. It was the very reason he was sitting beside me, the very reason that both of our eyes were fixed on the blossoming blemish that spread like wildfire across white, as if the bed itself was bleeding.

But it wasn't the bed, it was he.

"I'll clean it," I mumbled, the sheets feeling clean and starched under my fingers, the soft pads on my fingertips grazing it as I backed away from the stain, my feet already off the side of the bed.

"You can't, it'll stain," he said, in his confident, matter-of-fact voice. It held no doubt that this coverlet was indeed ruined, forever.

"I'm sure your mum can clean it," I said, gulping audibly, his eyes leaving the vivid red on the bed sheet at last, and meeting mine. His eyes were blue, but I couldn't help noticing again that their colour had faded, like that of denim that has been through the washing machine one too many times. It used to be the colour of the sky, except tainted with grey. Like the calm before the storm, I thought.

Now, it seemed, he was the storm.

"It's beautiful though, don't you think?" he pondered, the question hanging in the air with my struggling breath and his calm exhalation.

"A-are you okay?" I wondered, my previous thought to alert his mother of the stain rapidly fading as I studied him, taking in the precise pinpoints of ruby red that flecked his chin.

"Of course."

"You coughed up blood, Adam, that isn't normal," I said, painfully aware of the lick of hysteria that flickered at the base of my mind like flames, waiting for kindling.

"It is for me," he said, his voice sure, but I wasn't sure what of. I wanted to know, and the desire echoed in my subconscious, suggestions of it littering my dreams, like flimsy trapdoors concealing my greatest fears.

But that sort of knowledge was beyond me. I could only watch as a sort of calm overtook him, slowing his movements, reserving his energy for the things he thought most important. Like me, I thought, knowing that the display of energy and carefree laughter that had once come so easily was now tainted with pain. It took too much effort on his part to sustain, I thought, to be as effortless as he tried to make it seem. I also knew that, when he thought he was alone, he became a boy that knew his time was coming to an end.

"Adam," I addressed him, willing my voice to remain calm, like his.

"Emily?" he replied, the question turning up the edges of the word, along with the edges of his mouth. When he smiled, even slightly, he could almost be the old Adam again.

"Adam, I-"