What He Left Behind

Ten

Charlie is silent for a second. I don't expect anything less because that's what usually happens; people need a moment to construct an appropriate response.

"I had no idea," he says.

"It's not exactly something you bring into the average conversation."

"True," he accepts, "He died?"

I nod.

"What was his name?" A lot of people might find that a peculiar question, but I feel an overwhelming sense of relief. People hear that someone died and are sent into panic mode. They get all flustered and uncomfortable and say stupid things like 'sorry' or try to change the subject, which is stupid because all I really want to do is talk about him like the normal human being he was.

I don't mind 'How did he die?' or 'What happened?' so much, because it's only natural to be curious, but I just think it's unfair how Austin is almost defined by his death. It's as though his life has been completely forgotten and his death is all that people remember him by. To them he's 'Austin, that boy that died.'

To me, he's Austin the person that never failed to make me laugh, the person that cared a lot, too much even, the person that I loved more than anyone else. He was fire that burned so profusely and furiously. He was a hurricane, leaving a trail of carnage everywhere he went. He was bitter like the December frost and unrelenting like the August sun and a mixture of everything else in between. He was capricious like a hormonal teenage girl yet amiable like a sweet old man. He was aggressive yet kind and reckless yet thoughtful. He was tortured by a myriad of thoughts that drove him to the brink of insanity. And yet, to me, he was golden.

"His name was Austin," I tell Charlie as we continue to walk through the desolate streets, "It's his birthday soon."

"When?"

"October 10th. He would have been twenty-one."

"Are you doing anything?"

"I want to," I admit, "He may be dead but surely his birthday is still worth commemorating. My parents don't agree though. They like to pretend that he never existed."

"Sometimes that's how people cope. It's easier to pretend he was never there at all than to accept he's gone," Charlie continues. "Will you tell me about him?"

The truth is I could go on for hours about what he was like, but I don't think now would be the right time to get into detail, hence why I go for the most accurate and to-the-point description I can think of.

"He was like you." Charlie is silent for another moment, taking in my words and trying to make sense of them.

"Like me?" he questions, raising his eyebrows in curiosity as we come to a stop outside my house.

"Yes."

"How was he like me?" I look from Charlie to my house back to Charlie, an image of Austin flashing through my mind, an image that vanishes as quickly as it appeared.

"That story," I decide, "Will have to wait for another time." Charlie turns to face me, sighing with irritation as he shakes his head at me. He doesn't push me though, and I am grateful for that.

"Thank you Charlie," I tell him sincerely, leaning in to place a gentle kiss on his cheek.

"You missed," he mutters with the usual glint of mischief in his eyes.

I never can work out whether or not he's joking. Knowing what he's like, he's probably being serious. I know better than to follow the impulse to kiss him though. I'm not about to become another girl he can add to his list of conquests.