Gone (Ianthony)

Two Months, Three Weeks, and Twenty Hours Before

Anthony:    

To me, possibly the most important lesson in life - the thing that should be taught in schools instead of geometry and chemistry - would have to be this:

When there is a lot on your mind, the worst possible thing to do is sit alone and think.

And, after being alive for nearly twenty seven years, I thought I'd had a pretty solid hold on that very statement. But, after the worst thing imaginable in my life happened and I had no one left, I found it hard to do anything but that.

Tonight, it was raining. Not very hard; just a little spray of droplets fell from the sky in a soft flurry once every few minutes. 

I thought back to a few months ago when it was raining.

Ian and I were editing. The window was open. And out of nowhere came the sort of downpour that could only be described as God spilling his glass of water.

So, as rain poured in through the window and began drowning the papers on the desk, we both stood up and forced it closed. And then we laughed. I think that was the last time we laughed really hard for a long time.

This time, Ian wasn't here. I had nothing to edit. It was dark outside, and raining, and the windows were closed.

Tonight, I sat on the end of Ian's bed, holding the slip of paper with the numbers on it in my fist. 

I had spent a lot of time in his room lately. It was a stupid thing to do and I knew I shouldn't have, but I did. I sat on the edge of his bed, I paced his empty floor space, I even slept in his bed sometimes.

I checked the time. 11:47. I wasn't tired at all. I had barely slept in a week. I hadn't eaten much, either.

For the first time, I was beginning to understand what Ian went through. Why he was so messed up.

||

"Hey, Anthony, it's Ryan. Look, man, I... Jesus, I'm so sorry. I know that doesn't even begin to cut it, but... I don't know what else to say. I know you need time, well, we all do, but we really need to get together and talk about-"     

I pressed delete. 

"Anthony? It's mom. Look, sweetie, Ian's mom just called me. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Please call me as soon as you-"    

Delete.

"Hey, Anthony... it's... it's me. I've tried your cell like a billion times. I know you probably don't wanna talk to  me, but... I heard what happened. I'm so sorry. Please call me. I-I miss you-"   

Delete.

"Good morning. This is the Greenwood Psychiatric Hospital, reminding you that Mr. Ian Hecox has an appointment scheduled for-"    

I unplugged the answering machine from the wall and threw it behind the couch.

It was now three in the morning. I tried to sleep. In my own bed, at first, but I eventually migrated to Ian's room. I just wanted to be in there as much as possible before his smell disappeared.

The note I had received at the retirement home was keeping me awake.

Because I knew what it meant. I knew what it was. It itched at the back of my mind and clawed at my skull, trying to force its way out. But something was holding it back. Something I couldn't figure out.

I sat down in the middle of the living room. It was raining harder now; the random spurs of little drops had transformed into a contstant rhythm falling softly on the sidewalk.

I was going to force myself to think.

I was defying every rule I had every taught myself, but I had to. Maybe if I sorted out some of the countless problems in my head, I could sleep. I could eat. 

So, I thought. 

For hours, I sat in the middle of the floor, listening to the rain fall onto the window and staring at the wall, dimly lit by the lmap next to the couch.

I thought about Ian's smile, and how every time it appeared on his face, every single one of my problems disappeared and all I could think about was how lucky I was to have such an amazing best friend.   

I thought about how soon word would get out and the whole world would discover what happened.

I thought about how I broke up with my girlfriend because she didn't like me spending so much time with Ian after the night he came home trembling, and how I really only missed her for a few weeks.

I thought about his mom's face when I told her I thought he was alive, and how confused and doubtful she looked.

I thought about the morning I woke up expecting to just have a normal day, but instead found the house empty except for a little handwritten note on the end of his bed.

I thought about his grandma, and how the way she tried to smile but something held her back - the same way Ian had been doing the same thing the past few months.

I thought about how happy I was when I woke up to find him eating cereal and smiling at me, and how I should have realized what was really going on.

I thought about the night before I woke up and found the house empty, when we were on the couch and he told me how much I meant to him and I smiled and told him the same thing. 

I thought about how I should have taken him more seriously.

I thought about how if I had known it would have been my last chance, I would have told him so much more.

I thought about how I should have kissed him. I would have, had I known what I would find the next morning.

But mostly, I thought about whether or not I really was insane. 

Was I really just in denial and making up scenarios? I mean, it was pretty ridiculous; Ian was leaving me a series of clues leading to where he had run away, and everyone but me was convinced he was dead in a hole somewhere. 

But, I had gotten this far. The notes were in his handwriting. And the capital letters. He left them for me. He wanted me to find him and let everyone else believe he was dead. 

I knew it, then. I wasn't crazy. It took hours of thinking alone in the living room, but I knew I wasn't. He really left this for me. I was supposed to find him.

And I would.

Right then, right as I had that one epiphany that set my next three months into focus, I had a sudden flashback to eleven years ago:

"Hey, man, I'm leaving after this period. You wanna come?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Alright, I'll pull my car up around the doors by the art room. Can you stop by my locker and grab my bag?"

"Sure. What's your combination?"

"34-17-11."     

His old locker combination.

That was it.

The next clue.