I still remember him, when he was here. He was always full of life and energy, like fatigue was never a possibility for him.
I'm sitting on my bed, and I look over at his. But it's cold, and empty. It hasn't been warm for a while, but it's still exactly as he left it; messy, unkept. I didn't mind it though, that was his style. He was always busy, always up to something, and that showed with how his belongings were always everywhere. But still, I didn't mind, I loved him.
I remember when he first arrived, some years ago. He was like a torch in the dark tunnel of my life, for it was nothing but a dull haze. A continuous march to an uncertain future. I had just been made redundant at my first proper job since leaving school. I'd had it for nearly five years.
Not earning enough money to pay the bills sent me back home to live with my parents in the suburbs, and not even a month after being back, my mother was killed in an accident at work. She was a safety administrator, and while on a construction site one day, a large beam fell and crushed her. They say access to the site was postponed at least a month, because that's how long it took to clean up all of her rotting, dried blood and tissue remains that splatted everywhere. It's ironic, really. "Always look up", she'd tell the workers. Sure thing, mum.
She was my father's high school sweet heart, his first love. His only love.
And without her he fell apart, into a spiral of bottling up his feelings and downing bottle after bottle of alcohol. And just like that, he too, was gone. He had a heart condition, and one day it just stopped.
I went to the hospital to identify him, alone. I went to the funeral, alone. I went home to cry myself to sleep, alone. But sleep never came, instead I went for a walk.
I walked deep into the city that never seemed to sleep. Buses and cars were still rushing by, people were out walking, clubs and restaurants still buzzing. I thought about joining them, getting absolutely hammered, then maybe it'd hurt a little less. But decided against it, not wanting to see myself related to my father in that way.
Eventually I came across an alley, it seemed quieter than most, darker too. I was instantly hesitant, but when I heard him down there next to a pile of trash, whimpering, I knew he needed me.
I picked him up and took him straight home. He sat patiently, and cautiously while I washed him, and cleaned and bandaged the little cuts and scrapes he must of gotten from not having a home. I knew he'd have one now, though.
He slept with me that night, and the next day we went out and I bought him his own bed and belongings. And from that day, he and I were as close as could be.
We continued to live in my parents' house, in the suburbs. It was nice, and quiet. There was a beautiful walk we'd often trek, and if we could time it right, we'd come out to the lake just as the sun was setting, the reflection on the water grinning at us as we'd run around or lay in the grass. And as we'd walk home, I'd watch him sprint up ahead of me to chase the birds. I'd smile to myself while the summer breeze brushed past my sundress. Then, when we'd make it home, we'd snuggle up on the couch together, or out on the swinging chair on the back porch, where we had the most stunning view of the city at night, right at our fingertips. Sometimes I'd read to him, or gently rock him as he slept. And sometimes we'd sit in comfortable silence, enjoying the comfort each brought to the other. We'd stay out there for hours, swinging back and forth, until we'd decide it was time for bed, where we'd sleep right next to each other. He got worried if he wasn't close to me.
He is my best friend. My entire world. I love him so much.
Well, he was my best friend, my entire world. I loved him so much. So fucking much.
But candles burn bright, then they burn out. One day I came home to find he'd been bitten by a snake. There was nothing I could do.
Sometimes I still pick up his collar and leash, almost expecting him to come running at the sound, but I'll never get used to that awful silence.
