The Final Realization

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          Looking around him, Trampus saw that the rains had finally stopped, and he could continue on his way to the site. The night was chilled, with mist snaking it's way along the ground, and he shuddered, reminding himself too late that he should have worn a jacket. A pale yellow moon shown in the cracks of the clouds, and every now and then it was revealed to its complete glory. Picking his way through the weeds, he came to the freshly filled tomb.
          Standing at least twice his size, the tomb was made of the finest marble, an unearthly white with dark black lines snaking their way over the smooth surface to make the features of a map that didn’t exist. Scratched into the surface was the name of his former lover, the one who had always promised to see Trampus to the end of his days. It seemed that promise had been in vain. As he stroked the engraving with the pads of his fingers, Trampus felt his eyes welling with tears that had been there for weeks.
          He hadn’t cried when he first learned that David was in the hospital, he had just sat there, watching as machines kept David alive. Monitors beeped and a steady drip from the IV counted the seconds down to countless hours. When the monitor had gone from a beep to a steady drone, Trampus walked out of the room and had disappeared to all those that knew and loved him for all of two days. When he finally reappeared, the room was empty and he knew that the doctors he counted on failed to save his one and only reason for living. And yet, the tears remained locked away.
          Now, as the rains had cleansed the tomb wherein David lay, Trampus felt the first tear form. He let them flow freely, and thought silently to himself that they cleansed him and the tomb he had become. He stood there and listened to the wind whipping through the trees, and knew that this was to be his only companion for the remainder of his life; Silence as he lived his life among those that were still fortunate enough to have life in their bodies and air in their lungs. He knew that there would no longer be a chance to look upon David and see his love; there would no longer be another chance to hear his voice saying something that had not already been said.

          ‘Trampus…’

          He wheeled around and stared into the empty graves. Scanning his pale grey eyes around, he saw nothing except the raised tombs and headstones of those buried long ago. How many times, he wondered then, had the loved ones of these people come to the graveyard and grieved, only to have lost their sense of urgency, and had ceased coming, except for the anniversaries of the death? He knew that it happened sooner or later, but he wished then that he would never lose that urgency. How could he, Trampus, sleep in a comfortable, warm room, when his love lay out in the cold, his only shelter a block of stone in the middle of a field?
          In the distance, a train’s horn sounded, and a dog barked.


          Releasing himself from the pain of living, Trampus lowered himself to the floor in front of the coffee table, where his mistress laid waiting. A small plastic bag lay next to a torch and a pipe, and for the first time in what seemed like forever, a smile flashed on his face. Within seconds, his vision became blocked by the familiar cloud of pearly white smoke bursting forth from his chest. The room was silent, except for the occasional shout or passing car three stories below. The only light illuminating the apartment issued from the small lamp on what had been David’s desk. After having been on for nearly two and a half weeks, the bulb was sure to soon meet its death, just as its rightful owner had.
          He looked around him and felt himself in an alien world. Nothing here seemed to be in its right place, though he knew that before David had left that morning, he had made sure that everything was where he would need it when he returned that night, but now there was certainly no need for that thoughtful arrangement. What mattered now was that Trampus only moved what he needed to, and that all the rest remained as David liked it. It seemed to all of Trampus’ family and friends that he was holding onto some hope that David would once again return and that he would ask where his things were if they were moved. Trampus knew himself that he was holding onto that hope, and that it was pointless, but what did it matter now, he wondered, if his whole world consisted of nothing but fantasy until the day that he died?
          “I love you,” he said aloud, half expecting David’s laugh to come from the kitchen, thereby professing his love to him. Then, after a minute, David would walk into the living room and hand him a cup of hot tea and take the pipe from him. “That’s not good for you,” he would say in a loving tone. Though wanting more, he would give into David’s request and not smoke around him. They would kiss and everything would be all right for just one more night. They would turn on the stereo and have a mock argument about the good and bad points of a song; they would finally agree to disagree and finally head for bed.
          Well, none of that for Trampus anymore. The man he loved was dead, and it seemed that no matter what he did, he could not accept that fact and checked his watch continuously and wondered when David would finally walk through the door. Sighing, he took another hit off the pipe, and this time chased it with a large bump. A wave of emotion surged over him and he lurched suddenly from the sofa, and swaggered into the bed, landing with his face in the pillow of his lover. He breathed in the fading scent and felt the tears welling up again. Now that he had finally let some out, it seemed that he could not dam them up again. He lay, weeping into the pillow for some time until he finally fell into a blissful sleep.
          Hours later, he awoke, and looking at the clock, realized it was the middle of the night. He wasn’t exactly sure what had woken him, except that the back of his neck felt as if someone had gently slid cubes of ice across it. He touched his neck and felt the remains of the mysterious chill. “David,” he whispered sleepily. He turned his head to face the living room, but to his disappointment, it was just as empty as before. As he turned back over, he felt the tears coming again, and he cried himself to sleep, breathing deep the scent of David.


          He was standing in the middle of a field, but for the reason as to why, he had no idea. It had some significance, but what it was, he had no clue. It was dusk, and the violent purples and oranges of the sky reflected the struggle the sun was having to maintain its life for a few more moments of the day. Already, stars were overhead shining and twinkling in a manner that had to be more than random.
          ‘Trampus…Trampus…,’ the wind seemed to whisper it and the words spoken by his lover surrounded him. “I’m listening,” he told it. “Please don’t leave me,” he cried. The wind forcefully picked up, and he stood facing into it, with his arms outstretched, and felt the spirit of the air encircle him.
          ‘I love you…’ He awoke, and listened to the apartment around him. The clock in the kitchen quietly ticked the seconds away. He raised his head from the pillow and looked at his bedside clock. “3:28,” it read. A faint light shone in from the window and illuminated the picture of David beside the bed. He had spoken to him again, and David had spoken back. A weight settled upon Trampus, and he felt as if he were being squeezed from the inside out, and knew that he wanted simply to have it all end, and quickly join David.


          When he awoke the next day, he felt the sun streaming in on him and stayed in bed, letting it warm him as David had once. His arms would circle around Trampus when he first stirred, and the strength in them would show and give love. Feeling secure in this bliss, they would remain in bed for a while and kiss, or, time permitting, would make love, exploring each other’s body in the morning sun. Now, lying there alone, Trampus felt the emptiness of the apartment, surround him, and as it wrapped its arms slowly around his heart, he rose suddenly from the bed and shook the feeling from him.
          It was clear to him then that he would no longer belong to this world. He would wander the streets as a blur and would see all in black and white. He knew that this may have been a tad dramatic, but in the depths of his soul he felt no stirring to change that fact. He thought to himself then that perhaps the world was inhabited not only by those still alive, but also with the spirits of those who had passed on. How else could he explain that which had happened to him the night before? Was it not more than just the stirrings of an empty heart, or was it in fact the desire to not be alone, and the desire made manifest into a reality?
          Deciding to clear his head, he quickly dressed and soon he was on the street three stories below. The wind was cool and crisp, but he was somewhat pleased to see that the rains had passed and that the sun now had another chance to live. Stepping through the metal gate entrance to the building, he was once again on the always slightly filthy, but always beautiful city streets. The buildings surrounding him seemed to give the impression that life goes on no matter what, and that there is a beauty to be found in life, no matter what situations have surrounded us.
          At the corner, there was a towering four-story building built with beautiful rose red bricks, and laced with wrought-iron balconies. He had loved this building since he had first laid eyes on it, and knew from the feeling surrounding the place that this is where he belonged. Now he wondered what would have happened if he had stayed in the city of his birth. Feeling still resentful of the life around him, he told himself that he would have loved and lost there as well. He reasoned to himself that there was some divine joke being told about his life, and that the punch line had been utterly fucked up somehow. This appeared to him to not be life, but a cruel imitation.
          Men and women passed him; he took no notice of their features, for they appeared to him to have lost their faces and were mere shadows of their former brilliance. Voices and laughter passed him, and he felt uniquely removed. What more was there to laugh or even speak about? All was gone for him, and he knew he would never be the same. He drew into himself.
          There seemed that out of nowhere, a man appeared and nothing Trampus did could prevent him from running directly into him.
          “I’m sorry, sir,” Trampus managed to say and immediately knew he didn’t mean it. What more was there to say except slight pleasantries to those who passed him?
          “It’s okay, my dear lad,” the old man said. “I can see that your mind is troubled.” He clapped Trampus on the shoulder and walked around him. Trampus continued on his way and stopped when the man, barely audible from behind him, said, “He still loves you.”
          “How did you …” Trampus began, spinning around to get another look at the man. His heart skipped, for the man was gone.

          He had continued on then, and his mind had been taken even further from realizing where he was going. He scarcely took it in, when he ended up sitting on a bench, looking at the river in front of him. A man playing a saxophone was not twenty feet from him, yet the music seemed to be coming from the end of a very long tunnel. A man passed and offered to shine his shoes for a minimal price, but Trampus didn’t hear it, or rather, he heard it only after the man had gone and found his business elsewhere. Birds flew overhead, squawking as their search for food continued.
          He sat there for what seemed like a minute but could have been an hour. Thoughts of a life now dead passed through his head and a tear dropped down his cheek. Wiping it away, he wondered if anyone had seen. What did it matter? He would never see anyone on this street ever again. Most were tourists who had come to see the marvels of this city, this modern Sodom of the world. Everything imaginable was possible here, and the world had taken note of that for over nearly three centuries.
          Wasn’t that though why he had come to this city the first time? A tourist looking for nothing more than a memory to keep with him so that he could say later on in life, ‘What if…?’  He had come looking for a good time, but he had never really intended to stay. Sure, the city was beautiful, and the days often offered something that was not there the day before and would never be again. Though the city stayed the same, the people and events always changed and that was one of the things that had drawn him to stay. Now, he wanted nothing more than to leave; he wanted not to leave only the city but also the memory of all that had once been good. He wanted to leave his life.


          He had come to the City when he was eighteen. At that point in life, he was an infant in the world of adults and he knew that life had to change for him. He had been living with his father all of his life, and in his mind there had to be a way out of being ruled by a set condition of ways, and by leaving totally and absolutely, his dream of starting over had been realized. They had settled down in a small rural community, and Trampus had been driven to eventually hate his surroundings, routine, and eventually his father as well. He wanted more than small town events in his life, and had finally acquired the means to achieve it.
          Everyone had said that Trampus was a boy who would do great things in the world, but to him it seemed that he couldn’t do that while trapped in a life he hated. He knew that he had to leave, and he had to do it soon. One day, which seemed as normal and ordinary as any other, he had packed his clothes and a few belongings and had gotten into his car and driven away. He reached the City late that same night. While driving around, he took control of his desperate thoughts and had parked the car and started walking.
          The country had its own beauty, he figured, but this, the City, had a splendor all its own. Though he knew it to be late in the night, shops were still open and the streets were as crowded as they would be during the day. He passed my men and women and seemed to see all of them as shining angels, taking for granted what they had all around them. Out from the bars and clubs pulsed a life of the music, one which said to Trampus, “Come to me…” His heart swelled in his chest when he saw the corner building made of rose brick. He knew it then; he was truly home.
          That first night, he had gotten back into his car, and had driven in circles around the city, soaking in as much as he could. Already, a weight of realization of where he was at in life was beginning to sink in. Having driven into the city with his stereo blaring, he took to driving with his windows down listening to the sounds of the city. Shouts of laughter and occasional bursts of song came to him from the groups of young and old alike who were gathered together on the street corners.     
          Growing restless, he again parked and wandered the streets until the first rays of the sun reflected off of the tallest buildings of the city. Feeling an almost unearthly alertness, he continued to circle through the streets, hoping day life in this section of the city was as active as the night.
          As he walked through this square section of the City, he looked at all the shops lining the street, with apartment buildings hidden behind them, each as a jewel which shines brightly once it becomes uncovered and polished. Thoughts such as what it would be like to live in them, in the middle of a city teeming with life often crossed his mind. He must have had the appearance of a new-comer, because more than once he had been stopped by a stranger and had engaged in talk, spending more than a few minutes each time to talk to the natives of the City. He learned that many people, no matter what they looked like at first sight, would gladly take advantage of a newcomer and would fast-talk their way into a few dollars or more. More than once, those strangers had offered Trampus a drug of some form or another, but he had politely refused them all. He often thanked these natives and said that he hoped to see them again, privately wishing to never have the misfortune to do so.
          The sun shone with such fierceness that Trampus had never seen before. It was as if the sun knew of his change in life and wanted to mark the occasion. The day passed quickly for him, but even as the sun was setting over the towering buildings, he knew there were things here that beckoned him to stay, and to walk the streets forever. It was on this day that he vowed to himself that if he ever left, he would again return and seek the treasures once more.
          That second night, he had checked into a cheap motel room and had sunk into the tub where he had drawn a steaming bubble bath. Quickly sinking into the water, he felt not only the warmth of the water, but that of change wash over him. The first immersion in the waters of a new city had cleansed him of his past life and had wiped away all of the guilt for leaving it so hurriedly behind. He must have fallen asleep in the tub, because the next thing that he knew he was coughing and spitting out water. What an end to a perfect day.


          He was back in his apartment, but it was no longer his home. He had walked in and the answering machine was beeping, but it would wait. He collapsed onto the couch and flashes of doubt questioned if his decision was the best to make. None but those who had been in this situation would understand him now, and they were all gone, having made the same choice he was making.
          A woman had been selling flowers on the street below, and as he had passed, she asked if he would like one for his loved one. He stared at her blankly for a moment and swallowed the urge to hit her then and there. He had turned away without answering her. He walked the streets blindly after that and could tell that the only reason he was safely home was because of how well he knew the streets. He knew that he stumbled up the stairs and had even fallen on the second landing, but he had not been in pain and had moved on.
          On the couch now, he sat with the familiar lady and three of David’s old prescriptions in front of him. Perhaps it appeared to be a permanent solution to a temporary situation, but this hurt and this wandering of his soul would never cease. He wanted to be with David always and this would not stop him; this would in fact enable him to do just that. He knew that David was telling his soul that he was ready whenever Trampus was, and that he would be waiting on the other side.
          He took a hit off of the pipe, slowly swirling the smoke around the bowl with this lighter before inhaling as much as he could, holding it all in until the darkness started to creep into his vision and he was forced by his body to exhale the pearly smoke. Bringing up the courage to finalize his decision would be easier now that he had gotten that out of the way.  With his pulse racing, and his mind cleared, he picked up each of the bottles, rattling each one to gather the amount left, and popped the top off each one. Dumping them all in his hand, one bottle at a time, he soon had more than two hundred pills in his hands. This was it: the deep breathe before the plunge.
          He grabbed a bottle of vodka from the floor next to him and twisted the cap off with his teeth. He took a swig to wet his mouth, and looked once more at the pills. Closing his eyes, he took as many as he could into his mouth and quickly washed them down with another swallow of vodka. He repeated this again until they were all gone. Shaking his head to clear his mind of the sudden onslaught of alcohol, he reached again for the pipe. Now there was no point in limiting his intake. He swirled the smoke around again, and he quickly breathed in the smoke. He cooked the remainder of the rock that he had placed in the bowl earlier that morning, and once it was gone he replaced it with another and repeated the process. When he had smoked that rock, he took the final shards of ice from his baggie and swallowed it, along with the final swig of vodka. Nothing to do now but wait.
          He found the remote to the stereo and decided to turn it to David’s favorite CD. The sounds of opera filled the apartment suddenly and he was taken away by the emotions that swept through him along with the voices coming from the speakers. His arms lay limp by his side, and he turned his head from his right to his left, knowing that it was working. His stomach lurched as it passed the medication into his blood stream. His heart pounded in his ears, with the rapid pulse known mainly to those who stayed out clubbing until four in the morning. He felt beads of sweat welling up on his forehead, and within minutes, he was drenched from head to foot in the feverish sweat that beckons forth the cold hand of death.
          His hands and feet felt as if they were swelling as balloons, and the blood coursed through his veins. The pounding grew louder and more intense as his stomach heaved and bile issued forth from his mouth. The taste of his own blood coated his entire mouth. It ran from his nose freely, and having no energy or desire to stop it, his arms hung limp at his sides, doing nothing. His body slowly began to shake as war was waged deep inside it. By the time his body had realized it had poisoned itself, it was too late to do anything but try in vain to stop it. His head felt as if it was going to split in two, and he prayed for the quick and painless death of an aneurysm. This death would not be quick or painless, as the death of a coward is the final punishment in life. This pain, in realization of what would be on the other side, meant nothing, and only those who regretted their decision would hate the pain. Those who knew of the glory that awaited him would only wish in vain that they had achieved that same level of glory while doing nothing to bring it upon themselves. This was the ultimate sacrifice and knowledge gave him strength.          
          The final realization is discovering that bit of truth that resists ever being told to the rest of civilization; the final realization is…