Bullet For My Valentine

I understand why he did it.
At first it scared me. Disgusted me, even. I couldn’t see why he needed the pain, or why someone who meant everything to me was slowly dying right before my eyes. There was nothing I could do but hold him back until he pushed me away.
I was probably the reason he hid it from everyone. The reason he had to suffer silently was because the one person he had wouldn’t listen, because she didn’t want to hear.

She’s the reason he’s not here anymore.

I remember the night I found out.
It really was a beautiful night, now that I think back on it. There were thick, heavy snowflakes coming down, the city was glowing with Christmas lights, and everyone around me seemed like they were really enjoying the holidays. It’s strange; now, every Christmas when I see a happy couple laughing together, I want to scream. “How can you be so happy? The world lost someone today! My whole world makes no sense anymore, and you two are laughing and smiling like it means nothing?!”
But that night was probably the last time I the city would ever seem beautiful. I can’t see it as anything but the place that took his life anymore.
He was in his car, his old Taurus wagon, driving just a little too fast and running every light. It had been so long since I’d seen him and that old beat-up car. I would recognize the car anywhere, it was unmistakable. But… the driver didn’t look like him. Even in the seconds that I saw him as he passed, I could see he was hunched over and paler than I remember him.
I followed him back to his apartment, and as he stumbled out of the car I sat back and waited. He nearly sprinted into the building. His hands were shaking when he fumbled with the lock to the door of his apartment, and he dropped his keys at least twice. Something wasn’t right, and anyone could see it.
He darted inside and slammed the door. I waited a few minutes, and then took out the spare he gave me. I unlocked the door as quietly as I could; something seemed wrong here. I opened the door to his pitch black apartment, and the only light was the dull glow of a cigarette in an ash trey. For a minute, I stood there.
What was I doing, sneaking into his house like a criminal? What did I think happened? He was fine, I was just paranoid. I should probably just pretend I didn’t see a man I thought was gone and walk right out of here, always wondering what happened to him.

I chose to ignore the fact that he had closed himself off to me and his family. No one had heard from him in three months, and his parents were already mourning him. I guess, in a way, he was dead. The man we knew was gone forever, anyway.

So, I went inside. I felt my way around as quietly as I could, until I found the big windows that cast the cities lights on his living room. There was heavy breathing coming from somewhere, but too muffled for me to know who it was. It sounded pained, like someone sobbing.
Please, don’t let it be him. Don’t make me see the strongest person I’ve ever known broken down in tears. I followed the sound to the door to the fire escape, praying to God he wasn’t crying. I couldn’t take the sight.
I threw open the heavy metal door.

Crumpled over on the ground, breathing shakily with a needle in his arm, was Mike.

White as the snow that was piling around him and with dark circles under his eyes; he looked like… like a corpse. He was so thin and frail, and I felt like my gaze might break him.
His eyes shot up at to me. He stared at me for a long time, transfixed on me. I searched his eyes, looking for… anything. I don’t know what I expected to see, but I never found it. He just stared at me.
There was nothing there.

“Mike…” I whispered, never breaking his stare. I was afraid that if I did, somehow, he might disappear.
He didn’t move. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t even blink. Tears just streamed down his face, and he started silently sobbing. He clutched the empty needle, and pulled it out. He threw it over the railing, and tried to stand.




I… ran from him. When I was backing away, towards the door, I heard him say something. I don’t know what it was, but now when I remember it now, he was saying my name. He was calling to me to help him. To pull him out of the mess he had gotten his life into like he had done for me so many times.
And… when it came time for me to help him… I ran.
This wasn’t the man I looked up to and admired.
This wasn’t my hero.
He couldn’t be.

When he needed someone, when he reached out for someone to help him heal, I rejected him. I showed him he wasn’t worth the pain he was putting me through. I showed him he was better off dead than with the people he cared about.