The Degradation

Chapter 6

"I never understood why people mourn the dead. Is it necessary to mourn the emptiness? The pain. The suffer. But not the dead, because the dead don't feel anything. We must mourn the living. Those who remained. Those who suffer this loss because the dead don't care. He doesn't suffer. He's just dead." - Harry

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Song: Sia – Breath me

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A small arrow of my watch, which turns in a regular rhythm. The blonde, who wraps a strand of hair around her finger. The nerd, who licks his thumb every time he turns a page. The librarian is typing something on the computer and periodically scrunches up her nose to pick up the falling glasses. The spider runs from one slit to another. The ticking of the big clock hanging over the door. A pen that rolls down the table and that I pick it up over and over. I'm sighing. It seems that everything around is decidedly more interesting than the book on law opened in front of me. I pull out my iPhone and check if I have an Anonym response. I sent him a countdown of days in the morning, but no answer. He didn't answer me yesterday too. What if he's angry at me? Whenever I feel like I've been able to talk to him he always slips away. And it's scary. There are only 31 days left before the end of the countdown, and it seems to me that the first email was a million years ago. Although I still remember his message: "What would you do if you had only 100 days to live?" It's impossible, his question must have a meaning. He didn't just ask about this. That's not the kind of question you ask for no reason. The faster the days are passing, the most it becomes that unpleasant feeling in my stomach because despite what he told me, I know something's going to happen.

"I'm sorry."

And I press "send". I'm not used to apologizing, but I don't want to lose him now. Not now, when so little time is remaining until the end. I can't get the obsession out of my head that he's going to do something stupid. I take another breath and put the phone back. Trying to focus on civil rights.

After all, I'm making good progress. An hour later, I release the pencil from my hands and slowly stretch until my eyes abruptly stop in the silhouette. Cannot be. By inertia, I bring my hand to my forehead and frown, feeling three seams under the patch. It's supposed to be a joke. After four days of total disappearance, he's five meters away from me. Four days ago, through his fault, I was bleeding, worried that nothing had happened to him, and he was just standing by the shelves now. His head was dipping in his damn book, which he holds in one hand and in the other a pen. Yeah, it's probably just a joke. He can't be that insolent. But it looks like that's what he is. Fuck, I've been worried about him for four days, and I find him here at the library reading as if nothing happened! Like he didn't dump me on the side of the road after he smashed my forehead against the side window because that bastard was angry and drunk! I'm gonna explode. He comes to the door and prepares to leave. I explode. I get up, squeaking the chair, and quickly come to him. He didn't see me coming and I'm pushing him hard by the shoulder.

"How are you? Are you all right?" he raises his eyes on me, and I pretend to look at him from head to toe not hiding my disgust. I even grab the edge of his t-shirt and slightly pull it back.

"Didn't break anything?" he closes the book, putting the pen between two pages, and I continue cold to look at him.

"Feel yourself safe and sound?"

"Louis, not here."

He whispers and looks around. I do the same thing, and I realize that all eyes are on us, and I'm literally making a scene. Only I don't give a shit I'm too angry to pay attention. Four fucking days.