One year. Five hundred twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes. One year since death had ripped two lovers apart. One year and two weeks since a miraculous recovery from a near-death experience. Five hundred forty-five thousand, seven hundred sixty minutes. Life and death separated by a mere twenty thousand, one hundred sixty minutes. It wasn’t fair. Turmoil hit the slowly decreasing family, sending even the most calm, impassive one of them all into a nightmare of confusion and near-panic. The death of the poor soul was especially hard on the most troubled family member. He knew it was coming. He just didn’t want it to. That had happened a year ago. He had respected he final wishes of his beloved and kept living. He allowed himself to experience emotion. The impassive one envied this ability. How he wished to be like his friend, able to live life and experience feelings so easily and freely, even after a horrible event. The emotionally detached man wanted so desperately to feel.

Seven months. Over half a year since yet another tragedy threatened to snatch away the group’s sanity. Their cool, sage, level-headed family member grew sick and withered away. This devastated them. The one most affected by it was the always-detached young man. He was so deeply troubled by the death that he came close to throwing himself out a window. Where was he to turn for advice? Who was he going to confide in? What was he supposed to do? He didn’t let himself feel sad, yet again. Just confusion. When you’re the one to survive, you can’t feel upset.

Three and a half weeks. Twenty-five days since two of the family members left for another state. It had been nineteen days since the last HIV-positive one of them left alive came down with a fever. The detached one had no clue how to handle it. He was close to breaking point. It was either let himself feel and let the pain and sorrow rip away at what was left of his sanity or become totally unfeeling and become the definition of emotionless. He tried to go with the latter, but couldn’t do it. He could not detach himself far enough. He went without food for each of those days his best friend lay in the hospital, trying to save his money for the hospital bills and the ultimately inevitable.

Three days. Seventy-two hours since the most horrible event ever to occur in the life of the once-impassive young man. The second those eyes fluttered shut for the very last time, a meltdown occurred. Screaming, kicking, sobbing, crying, wailing, and anything else that can tear up a throat. And nobody else was there. Nobody was there to comfort him. When the doctor began to cover the body with a white sheet, the devastated boy cried out, reaching for a limp, lifeless hand. Cold. So cold. Scarred fingers and calluses rubbed his smooth palm for one last time before his insides gave a mighty lurch and stomach fluids were spilled onto the floor. He whimpered quietly before falling onto the floor, blackness encompassing his vision. The next thing he remembers is being at the funeral, sobbing heavily and giving a short, tearful final farewell. He watched, still crying, as the casket was lowered into the cold ground. The contents of the wooden box included a fender guitar, a leather jacket, plaid pants, a best friend, and the last spark of life in the young, tragedy-stricken soul of the previously-detached man.

A trembling hand reaches into a sparsely-filled cabinet, frail fingers closing around a cylindrical shape. After several tries, the lid comes off. A few pills are shaken into a hand and moved quickly to a open mouth. They are swallowed dry, and the lid is neglected to be replaced. Tears have yet to stop flowing from once-exuberant blue eyes. They were now dulled and grey, underlined with dark circles and always shrouded in tears. A small form is huddled onto a threadbare couch, clutching a few objects to a heaving chest. A blanket smelling of cigarette smoke, sweat, and cheap cologne is wrapped around thin shoulders. A navy and white scarf is wrapped around a small neck, the warmth not comforting the tortured being at all. A framed photograph is being tightly clutched by bony hands. The photograph is of two young men, one smiling at the camera with his arm around the other, who looks angry and embarrassed. The form falls on its side, still holding the photograph and tightly wrapped in the scarf and blanket.

As he turns to set the photo down so he can see it better, red, torn flesh is exposed as a sleeve rides up. He decides to look at the damage further. So, with tears still flowing down his cheeks, he pulls back the stained sleeve. Violent, self-inflicted fingernail scratches mar the pale arm, blood oozing out of a few of the fresher wounds. The other arm is the same. The scratches are from his daytime nightmares, in which he falls into a semi-conscious state and his mind is racked with horrible, gruesome memories. He claws at himself, trying to escape. It is delirium, not sleep. The pain is excruciating, but it is nothing compared to the pain that he is experiencing inwardly. Real sleep has not happened to him lately. He would lose consciousness after throwing up the nonexistent contents of his stomach, sure, but real, voluntary sleep had evaded him. The sleep-aid pills he had taken earlier were beginning to kick in, and an unsettling, overwhelming drowsiness begins to set in. He knows what is coming and that it is too late.

For the first time since the funeral, the man speaks. It is a raw, raspy, hoarse tone that is barely above a whisper. “Will I lose my dignity?” A wry, hollow laugh echoes throughout the room. The irony of the question is almost funny to him. “What dignity?” He knows that any shred of dignity he possessed had been lost the second that heart monitor flat-lined.

“Will someone care?” He shakes his head weakly. “Nobody’s around to care.”

“Will I wake tomorrow, from this nightmare?” Another forced laugh. “I hope not.”

He utters two final words. “Forget regret...”

Eyes shut tightly, tears squeezing out of the corners. Sleep begins to fall over the exhausted form. Weak lungs falter slightly as shuddering breaths become more shallow. The pills unexpectedly overtake his system, just the minimum recommended dosage slowly lulling him into unending sleep. His skeletal frame is wracked with shivers and sobs.

He didn’t mean to do that. He didn’t want to be the cause of his own death. It isn’t directly his fault, because he didn’t know that the pills were too much for his diminished metabolism. It is not suicide, even if his mind was filled with thoughts involving that practice. As he shuts his eyes one last time, he smiles weakly. Reunited at last with his late friends. No longer needing to detach from feeling alive. A tired heartbeat slows dramatically. The smile remains. Then, all is still. Goodbye, goodnight.

End

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Author’s Note: The most angst-packed thing I have ever written. Seriously. Also, my first posted RENTfic. Be gentle.