Wearing My Smile | ✔

Monday, April 2nd, 2007

Past midnight, the day had just turned into Monday, 2nd of April 2007, I woke up violently from my sleep because I saw something in my nightmare and it looked so real. It looked and sounded too real I had to fight the nausea that threatened to overwhelm me because I couldn't have it at all.

I didn't tell that part to the police, only that with my heart caught in my throat. I ran out of my house and stumbled down the steps with no shoes, running and running across the street, right to your house, right where you were supposed to be. I'd seen a note you'd left on my refrigerator since God knew when. I'd checked my saving account and I was faint because the numbers didn't seem real. I took a sniff of your T-shirt that I still wore on the nights I'd missed you too much. Days and days I'd waited for you to come home, because I knew you would, I believed you would, but I hadn't seen the resignation in your face, the defeated and exhausted way you'd close your eyes. I hadn't heard when you told me you wanted to get out of there, thinking that we could once we graduated, completely missing what you'd meant.

I hadn't seen your face the last time we'd fought, right before you walked out of my life right through my backyard.

Your front door was locked, but I knew your back door lock was broken—had been for a while—so I kicked it aside and I just couldn't seem to process what I was seeing at first. Why you were sitting in the middle of the cluttered mess of a living room, plastic tarp covered some of the furnitures, your head bowed down to your chest.

A black Glock 17 in your hand, wrapped tightly around your long fingers.

Something collapsed in my chest. “Sam?”

You lift your head up. On your dirt-stained cheeks were tracks of tears. Your eyes were sunken. Dark circles under them were too prominent. Already, in the days we hadn't seen each other, you looked much thinner. Exhausted, like everything was too much. Resigned, as though nothing mattered. “Roo?”

“Hey,” I croaked. My arms are open, my palms upturned, but I was shaking. I felt my bones clattered inside me and there was no other sound other than the sound of our breathing. “Hey, love. What've you got there? Would you hand that over to me please?”

“Why are you here?” you whispered. Your voice was scratchy like you hadn't used it for a long time. “You shouldn't be here.”

A ringing inside my ears. It was loud, much louder in the seconds I stayed. “Come to my house. What do you say? I can make you tea, with no sugar and no milk, just the way you like it.”

“You shouldn't have seen this,” you said, still whispering like you were talking to yourself. “I was careful. I was careful enough.”

“Sam. Listen. I missed you, okay? I missed you. Let's go home.”

Vacant eyes. No change in expression. Tears started to roll down your cheeks again. I felt mine wet like yours and as always my body understood faster than my mind ever did. I heard your murmur, “Is this a dream? It must be. It feels like it.”

“No, no. It's not.” Deep inhale, exhale. My insides were burning. “Sometimes we are awake, but it feels like we're not. It's okay, Sam. This is real. Everything—” I choked. "—everything's going to be okay. Just come home with me, alright?”

Tears. Why wouldn't it stop falling, Sam? Why wouldn't mine stop falling along with yours? “It hurts, Roo.”

“Tell me where.”

“It hurts. I'm selfish, Roo, I'm so selfish. I'm so fucking sorry. I just want the hurt to stop. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry.”

“It will. It will. We'll work through it like we always do. We're a team, remember? Everything's going to be better.”

Another tear. “Do you promise?”

“Yeah.” I swallowed down the scream that threatened to come out. “Yes, Sam. I promise. Have I ever lied to you?” I gave you a small smile because I had to. Because if I cracked, you'd see how much I'd been doubting myself and I couldn't have that.

But you weren't smiling. The hopelessness in your eyes didn't go away. I couldn't ponder what it meant, because that second, right at that second, you exhaled the breath you'd been holding, you told me, “I believe you, Roo.” and it sounded like you didn't, as though you were just saying your part of dialogue in a drama performance.

I couldn't ponder because, right at that second, you put the gun in your mouth.

I ran to you, screaming, No! I screamed, No, Sam! I screamed, Wait, please!

The explosive sound of the gunshot rang loudly in my ears and around your neglected house, followed quickly by a rush of blood that never seemed to quiet down. Red blood on the walls, blood on the plastic-covered furnitures, blood from the back of your head and your mouth. Iron, the smell of metallic so thick I could taste it in my mouth. I recalled the tragedy in your eyes, brimming with tears as you told me you were sorry.

My last words to you had been for you to wait, but you didn't, Sam. You couldn't wait for another sunset to pass. You couldn't sit there on your porch with the silence you'd come to know too intimately. You couldn't bring yourself to walk another step from where you were standing. Most importantly, you couldn't bring yourself to see me anymore because it made everything in you ache.

I tried. I tried so desperately to stop the blood, but I knew it was futile. I knew it was too late, because I was peering down at you and you were looking at the ceiling with eyes wide open. You weren't seeing me anymore. Your chest had stopped rising and falling. Towels upon towels. Me whispering over and over, no no no come back, Sam, come back to me don't leave me, oh God don't ever please—

I had seen your eyes in the millisecond before you'd pulled the trigger and I recognized the look like an old friend because perhaps your pain mirrored with mine, so I wheezed and sobbed as I waited. Waited for my pain to be over. Waited for the ambulance to come. Waited for you start moving again. Waited for you to come back to me.

Deep down, I've always known. If there was salvation in death, I couldn't see it in your eyes.