It’s meant to be funny, right? This twisted version of a test. A test to see how I would cope if the worst situation occured. That’s exactly what you’re doing isn’t it. If not that then why are you telling me this. It isn’t funny but I’m laughing. I’m questioning everything and the weird sinking feeling in my gut. Does my body know something I don’t? Surely not. How can it respond like that to something that is clearly a lie? A punchline. A punch in the stomach.
Tears don’t come. Breathing clashes with my heartbeat like a cacophony of pointless noise against my ears. Silence sits heavily on the room like a warm blanket of dust just settled on us. Why didn’t I know sooner? How did they think holding it back would be a good thing? I could have been here. Then again. How useful am I right now, I was better off with a few more hours of functionality. Now I’m stuck in this cycle of frozen grief, rushful energy and sudden remembrance of the meaning of all of this.
We go home. Where the others are. How could I have been gone for so long for everything to be this different. Furniture moved, carpets covered, weeping and sorrow. We were hopeful just hours earlier weren’t we? Then I see her, her tears, the emptiness in her eyes. She’s gone too.
And suddenly everything is shattered. In her eyes I suddenly see that no aspect could be thought of without being completely distorted from what it should be. In her presence the future and past merged into one emotion of regret, grief and nostalgia. There was no present anymore. Just “what if”s” and “remember when’s”. This isn’t right.