I Love You to Death(2)

Mostly, I think it should be me who’s the one dying.
∞

Since being born, I’ve been responsible for twelve deaths. I know most people experience some form of death throughout their life, but with me it’s very different. I just don’t think it’s normal for a twenty-five year old to lose that many people, and certainly not in the way I’ve lost them. I’m not saying I’ve directly killed anyone, but every death can be traced back to me, to something I did which ultimately resulted in their death.
Every single one of them.
The first person who died was my mother. I hadn’t been in this world for long, only one minute, before I lost her. Of course my birth was the reason for her death. Unforseen complications they called it. I never expected to be an unforseen complication. Then again, I never really expected any of this. I grew up with that hanging over me, an unforseen complication who killed her mother. My Dad always said that was crap, that it wasn’t my fault. But if I hadn’t been born, she never would’ve died, would she?
There never seemed to be any rhyme or reason to the deaths, why some lived longer than others, or even how frequently it happened. After the first one, I got a break for ten years. But then it came back. My Dad survived the first twenty-one years of my life, yet with Adam, it was only six months. With Sam I got five years, but it could’ve been forever and it still wouldn’t have been long enough.
To look at me you’d probably never see this problem I have, and I certainly don’t go around advertising it. On the outside I try to lead what I think looks like a regular life, doing all the normal things people do – work, pay my bills and occasionally go to the movies or something. In reality though it’s nothing like that because I can’t form any attachments, can’t have any real friends, don’t have a family and I definitely can’t fall in love again.
So in fact, my life is far from normal, it’s actually complete shit.
These last few weeks since Sam died have been tough. I stopped working for the first couple because I just couldn’t drag myself out of bed in the morning. I lost loads of weight and probably became a borderline alcoholic. I would spend days looking at old photos of us, willing him to come back to me. Nights I would spend drinking and crying, trying not to fall asleep so I wouldn’t have to face the horrifying nightmare all over again. The same nightmare repeated every single night of that one fateful day. It’s hard to know what’s worse, having to go through it in the first place or reliving it every night since.
Back then, after it first happened, I felt like I was drowning. Sinking into a pool of blackness that I wasn’t sure I would ever be able to crawl out of, or if I even wanted to. I didn’t think it would matter anyway, because who would miss me. All of the people I loved and cared about were already gone.
When I found his letter, it was a very bad day. I wasn’t in a good place and I was really, really drunk, systematically working my way through our entire alcohol collection. I discovered the letter sitting under the last bottle we had. I guess he knew me well.
Even in my drunken stupor, I stopped short to look at the plain white envelope that had For Ash written across the front in his writing. I must have eventually passed out because when the nightmare woke me the next morning, I was lying on the floor with a pounding headache, a puddle of scotch beside me and a crumpled envelope in my hands. I didn’t want to read it like that, just a pool of drunken depression on the floor of our apartment, so I dragged myself into a scolding hot shower and tried to wash away the disgust I had for myself. When I was clean, I pulled on one of Sam’s t-shirts, made a strong cup of coffee, curled up in the bed we shared, took a deep breath and read his words.
I’m now back at work, although it took another week of reading that letter over and over again to convince me to get there. I still don’t want to be here, but I owe it to Sam. I owe it to him to try at least, although I know if he saw me, he would say I’m not trying at all.
It’s funny, since I found the letter I’ve found other things he did around the place. Little things I’d never noticed before, because I guess I’d always been too busy looking at him. Now when I look in the bathroom mirror, I see the cheesy little heart with our initials in it that he drew in the corner with my eyeliner pencil. Now when I roll over in bed, I see the words goodnight Ash written on the side of the bedside table in black marker pen. The same words he whispered to me every night before pressing a kiss to the back of my neck.
He did this for me.
All of it he did for me, because he knew exactly how I would feel when he was gone and he wouldn’t be here to make it better. It makes me love him even more.
∞

Work is different since I left. For one thing, there’s a new guy. They brought him in when I wasn’t at work, but evidently they’re keeping him. I think it’s an attempt by the owner to revamp the place. The new guy seems nice enough, although I’ve noticed he’s always looking at me. I’ve stopped asking him, "What?" every time I catch him, because most of the time he just shrugs, smiles and goes back to work. The others I work with are more removed now too. Not quite avoiding me, but just being more cautious. For their sake it’s probably better this way.
I work in a book café on Newbury Street. It’s good, because when we’re quiet, Robert the owner doesn’t care if we read some of the books, as long as the work gets done. Most of the time, I’m behind the counter making coffees, selling books, or taking food and drinks out to customers. New guy is strictly food prep. I think he might actually be a qualified chef, so god knows what he’s doing in this place. I haven’t felt the need to ask him.