Dedicated to Meltalviel, who introduced me to the musical and who is a lovely person besides. I've written both better and worse, but I was suffering deprivation from this fandom.

Disclaimer: bare is, regrettably, not mine.

I don’t know if I’ve really slept since term started almost a year ago. It is now my firm belief that I will only be able to save lives if pre-med does not kill me first.

Or maybe it’s not a laughing matter; at least not tonight. A year ago I first killed someone.

I wonder, had I not told his secret, would Jason be here today? He was going to attend Notre Dame as well; we would have seen each other. Would have talked, and nothing would have been amiss. But I spoke, and I’m almost sure that I killed him then.

We’ve fallen out of touch (perhaps not by accident), but tonight I’m going to tell Peter that I’m sorry.

Elizabeth, being a bad roommate at this moment, just told me that if I’m going to sit here in front of my computer without writing anything, I might as well turn it off because the sound is keeping her up. Whatever.

I haven’t told her—haven’t told anybody, yet—about my brother. That he died, a year ago tonight. Mom and Dad don’t speak about it, of course: all a blot on their fucking reputation. I think about it a lot, but I haven’t been able to speak either—because of guilt.

I knew what he was hiding, all those years—he was my twin brother; we knew each other perfectly. But I didn’t talk to him about it, and he kept his secret inside until it was dragged out, and it killed him. But if I had spoken to him…would that have made a difference? Would he still be here?

We’ve fallen out of touch (perhaps not by accident), but tonight I’m going to tell Peter that I’m sorry.

I’m painting by moonlight. Mother agreed that I could continue to live with her so long as I provided for myself (and the baby when it was born), and as my lightbulb just blew and I have no spares, I am using the moon (mostly streetlights, actually). I haven’t had the chance to sit down at my easel for quite a while: knowing that I couldn’t support myself artistically, I took on a “real” job, which, combined with a baby, takes up a great deal of my time, and even that job is barely pulling us through.

Even if he wouldn’t have married me, I know that Jason would have helped us. But then, I blame myself, so if I hadn’t been in the picture he would still be here, with no girl to hang onto him for support. I didn’t have to seduce him and get myself into this predicament; if we had gone our separate ways there would have been no problem.

I spent my Christmas having his child, and sometimes when I was screaming so loudly that I couldn’t hear myself think I hated him for leaving me like this, but all along I still knew that I was the one to blame; knew it strongly enough that, although I should have, I couldn’t bear to call the baby after him.

It’s been a year since that night in June. The curse of such a visual mind is that pictures stay so sharp, and I can see him clearly. And even if his face did start to fade, Andrew looks more like his father every day. I love my son, but he’s also a living reminder of what I’ve lost—by my own fault.

We’ve fallen out of touch (perhaps not by accident), but tonight I’m going to tell Peter that I’m sorry.

Matt.

Nadia.

Ivy.

They’re all calling me tonight. We haven’t spoken since graduation; I only heard about Ivy’s baby through the grapevine. That silence has suited me fine, as I need my time to grieve, and I suppose the same was for them.

But suddenly, on this night of all nights, they’re all calling me, turning to me for…I don’t know. But I can’t give it to them; selfish it may be but I don’t even know what I can give to myself.

After graduation I packed a bag and started to travel around the world. I traveled a bit aimlessly, and my mother worried, but it was what I needed. A way to distract myself while I learned to deal with the pain, and figured out what to do with my life now. I don’t think I can ever act again; I’ve had enough of that.

I’ve considered the priesthood, oddly enough. If I haven’t destroyed my soul already, I think I could like that. Maybe make sure that what happened to Jason doesn’t happen to some other boy.

For now, though, any plan seems far off. Whenever I close my eyes I see him; whenever there is silence I can hear him; when I lie in bed at night I remember how he felt. It hurts a little less than it did at first, but that says nothing. And tonight, a year later, all the hurt comes back. And all the guilt…

I wonder, had I kept our secret, or shielded him, or yes, run away, would Jason still be here? Most probably. And this is what hurts me the most: to know the role I played in the death of the boy I loved more than anyone and anything.

Tonight they’re all calling me, perhaps to offer support, or empty apologies. But how can I accept those, when I still cannot forgive myself?

God, Jason, I’m so sorry!

I love you.

THE END