<Andreil Oneshots>

<8> Do The Dead Ever Die?

The boundaries which divide life from death are shadowy and vague. Who shall say where one ends, and the other one begins?

— EDGAR ALLAN POE

—

There wasn't a life without death. It ran its claws through every living thing, and it made the moments spent alive worth something more then nothing.

It was cruel and unforgiving; taking souls of those so young and so promising. Yet, in a way, it was beautiful too. You live a life full of memories — people and things — a song only you know all the words too. A rhythm you can only hope to write. Then when your body begins to fail, sweet death sets you off to sleep, to float in the peaceful abyss after life.

We can only hope it's peaceful though. We know what living is. We know death is. But do we really know what dead is? Are they ever truly dead, if they live in and haunt our memories so fiercely?

—

Neil's answer to this was no — as he woke up gasping — they never truly leave as long as you live. The mutilated hand he ran through his sweaty hair was proof of this. Each scar, mark and burn on his trembling body held a face and a name; some who had already kissed life goodbye and death hello. The scenes flashing in his head of fire licking the old car and curling around his broken mother; his father and others thrashing violently with the force of flying bullets; Riko's lifeless face laying in a pool of his own crimson blood. This was all proof.

No, the dead don't truly die. Not for Neil at least.

Pushing off the covers he slipped out of bed, grabbing a jumper and his worn out sneakers. He pulled them on in the next room as to not wake Kevin, and Andrew — most importantly — then grabbing his keys he was out the door in seconds. His feet moving fast down the stairs, staccatos in tune with his pounding heart. Flying out the building door, he was now outwardly sprinting; as if running fast enough would outrun their morbid faces.

The night air bit at his lungs and dried his mouth. His breath puffed out in front and his feet hit the rain-wet concrete. This was familiar. The burn in his legs felt good and the pumping of his arms stopped them shaking. He ran faster.

His surroundings blurred into one and suddenly he was stood, heaving breaths, out front of the Foxhole Court. With shaking hands he unlocked and entered inside, only bothering to grab his racket, cones and a bucket of balls.

Distractions. Distractions. Distractions. It was all he was hoping for and if perfecting his shots as a distraction would blow out his arms, he was willing to make that sacrifice.

He started his drills.

—

The sound of balls pounding, a racket hitting, heavy breaths and shoes squeaking filled his head with a warm buzz, blocking out the unwanted thoughts.

His nightmares were a thousands miles away and he was on cloud nine in his element.

Everything ached but in a way so much better than what he grew used to over the years. Instead of failure the pain signified growth and he was beaming.

He would loose himself in Exy and Nathaniel Wesniski would fade out of existence as Neil Josten became the star. No more running or guns or bloodied fists; just the court, his racket and his waiting opponents.