Asunder

Chapter 49 - Aftermath

The time after Sky is impossible. I'm not even sure if there is any time after Sky at all.

I cry in my bed. All day, all night. Without end, until I tire, and fall into a sleep void of any rest. Then I wake; I remember. And I cry again.

I don't respond to knocks on my door. I don't answer, even when my mom walks in, puts a hand on my shoulder, tries to feed me. Every voice sounds wrong. I don't want anyone's touch. Not if Sky's is gone.

Not if he is gone.

I don't drink or eat, only standing to go to the bathroom, to close the door when my mom leaves it open after she leaves. I keep staring at the spot on my bed where he sat that night, while I cleaned his cut. Where he pulled me close, and told me he loved me.
Then I remember he was bleeding. And I remember his blood. Under his head, on the pavement. Wrong, so wrong— and I fall apart on the ground.

I was still crying when I felt Dog's fuzzy tail brushing my knee, when Emma's arms enveloped me, when I inhaled her sweet scent. In the back of my mind, I marveled at the bit of flesh that had built, strong and beautiful on her bones. I told her so, but she ignored it; let me crumble between her hands.
She stayed many days, and we didn't talk. There wasn't anything to say. Because God, it hurt. When it hit me, time and time again yet always so suddenly, that he's dead.

Sky is dead.

Liam turned himself in for the murder of the love of my wavering life. He received a life sentence. I was invited to speak in court. I couldn't stand up that day, so I didn't show up. I couldn't show up.

I only cried, and cried. Drowning in my grief.

After a few days I started remembering. Remembering his smile, the beautiful things he said, the magic he made when he danced. God, when he danced.

Sometimes I thought he had to have been an angel. He had to have been only a temporary gift. And I should've known from the start it was too good. Too good, to love him.

Other times I cried tears of rage; rage, at what was taken from me, from him. The love that was mine, that was here, that isn't anymore. I scream, like a tortured animal. I twist and writhe with pain on the floor; it's excruciating. I claw at my skin, I claw at my legs, like he did before, when he couldn't bear it. It feels like dying, without the mercy of death.

I never wish for death, though. Never. Because what has Sky taught me if not the preciousness of life, with or without pain? With or without him?

But still, God; does it hurt some nights. Every night. After the anger and confusion fades, only the pain remains. I am hollow, except for that pain. I sit on the floor of my balcony, where it's always midnight, head tilted up so that the moon can see my tears, see that they are endless. The sky is starless, and if it were just a bit golden it would look like his eyes. And then I look down at his porch, and I bleed. I die, still and silent, so without him.

Those are the best, and the worst nights. Because I'm so close to him, to the memories, as I replay them in the dark. And I almost see him, like a ghost; he was standing there—

"I wonder... what if you did understand?" I whisper it like a secret; it blooms between us. "What if someone really did understand, and if it was you?"

And he does see; he sees me. "Then wouldn't that be wonderful, Kingsley Greene?"

The best, and the worst nights. Because the pain is strongest when the happy memories flood in. I drown in them, just as I drown in the images of his empty body on the pavement. Because he was here— we were here:

"Then if you're awake, leave a light on. I'll do the dirty work, princess."
"Princess?" I retort in mock-offence.
He shrugs. "If the shoe fits."
I straighten, looking down at him from between my lashes. "Well then, I guess you won't mind if I call you my royal jester."

He scoffs. "Seriously?"
"If the shoe fits, jester," I say, tilting my head royally.
"Why can't I be king?" he whines.
"Because I'm the king. It's in my name."

He grins at the pride in my face. "I like that, actually."

I remember it all. Everything. Every glint of the pale moonlight on his cheek. And I smile, because we were so, so beautiful.

Amongst thousands of horrible nightmares, I have my first good dream in a long time: I'm old, after decades of living. Wrinkled and worn, I lay in bed to sleep. I die, and find myself in a place where the sun shines bright and the grass lays green and warm under the young skin of my pbare feet.
When I look up, there he is; smiling. His clothes are unstained and white. His forehead is untouched.
I run to him. Run.
He catches me. Kisses me. Spins me in his arms and I hear the song of his voice—
"Long time no see, Kingsley Greene."

But then I wake up, and I'm still down here. I'm still without him.

Even with such a dream, I don't wish for death. Because of all Sky has shown me. Because of what I now know. Because if I see myself like I'm looking through his eyes, I am a treasure. I am precious. My soul, even if it bleeds, stretches out like oceans upon oceans. And so, if I don't have him by my side, I know I still have me. And so, I hold myself. I smile at my tears in the mirror, and I repeats his words:
"Angel, it's okay..."
And I swear I feel him smiling at me when I pick myself up again, like he used to. And there is a bit of relief, a bit of joy in that.

But still, the aftermath of Sky's death is an equation that neither my heart nor my mind can solve. And with each passing day not a shade of the answer comes to mind. Not one solution can be found.

On one especially hot day, I knocked on James and Hana's door. Once. Twice. Three times. There was no answer.
I held in my tears until I made it back inside my room, where I fell apart again.
The next day, I was on their porch again. Pieced back together, but fragile. I inhaled my courage and exhaled my shaking fear, and I knocked again. The door opened this time, to a red-eyed Hana. James joined our crumbling embrace seconds later, and his strong arms held us together.

Emma and my mother accompanied me to the memorial. There wasn't a funeral. Neither me, Hana nor James could fathom the thought of seeing Sky's body. But later, I realized it was the worst mistake of my life: I bit myself, regretting not having had the chance to see his face again. But it was too late; he was in the ground somewhere, and all I had were photos and videos. All I had was the memory of his sleeping face when I woke up before him in his arms. I imagined he must look like that, now. And maybe its better this way; maybe it's better to imagine him peaceful, resting, than to see the bullet hole in the center of his forehead.

So we made with a memorial. Only James, Hana, Emma, my mother, Sky's close friends and I were there. In Hana's garden, I had time to speak with the boys Sky spent the school year with, when he wasn't with me. They were sweet, and kind, artistic and nerdy. I imagined Sky fit right in as a mysterious, intellectual boy, who liked to talk for hours about anything and everything. Except for himself, of course.
I found out none of them knew of his past, none of them knew of Liam, or Tommy. Of the drugs, the cuts, the hell he walked through to eventually reach us; reach me. The secret was heavy within me. But the knowledge of his precious and rare trust lightened the load.
Some of the boys said they were looking forward to going to college alongside him; to seeing him become a world-famous dancer, or an actor, or a lawyer... that's when I had to excuse myself. That's when I locked myself inside the bathroom, exploding inside at the thought of it: Sky's future, ripped away from him— and by what, a bullet? He would have gone so far, he would have been so much. And I would have loved him through it all.

I trashed my eulogy. It wasn't right. It went on and on about how unfair this is, and how much I love him. But no one, —not Hana or James or mom, not his friends or Emma— no one, could understand how I loved him. How he loved me. I didn't want to tell them. Because it was ours.

I could only ever tell Sky.

So I wrote a letter.