Just a note: I'm not actually sure if I'll continue this or not. Also, if I did, I'm trying to keep it vague enough that I can edit it and make it its own story, so... yeah.
Enjoy! Or not...
Click. The projector is on. The reel of film makes its own clicking, vibrating sound as it rolls on.
The scene slowly fades into focus. For a moment all that's visible is a worn couch and the city out the window behind it. Then a man slides into view, sitting on the couch.
His hands were on his lap.
They were shaking.
His face had an almost hysterical look, his face flushed, his blue eyes glassy behind his black framed glasses. His pale red-blonde hair was messy and uncombed.
His breath was coming out in pants, visible through the little puffs of steam that he exhaled. It was February, after all, and the building had no heat. He was wearing a red, white, and grey plaid coat and a blue and white striped scarf against the cold, both looking as if they had seen better days.
Then he spoke. The camera had no sound, but he knew I could read lips. Why else had he left this on the floor, in the very room it was filmed, with no indication of what it was but a note taped to it, with my name?
He smiled a rather insane smile. "Well," his silent mouth said, "I never thought I'd use it for this." A pause. "February 14th, 9 am, Eastern Standard Time. How ironic that it's Valentine's Day. The one of us all who ever knew love is dead and gone, and the rest of us still reeling."
I wanted to close my eyes, imagine his voice again, but I couldn't. I'd miss what he said next, which could be worse.
"I came to the realization a while back," he continued, "that Maureen and Joanne are perfect for each other." He smiled. "I was never really in love with her anyway."
"Yeah, I know you think I'm lying, but seriously, looking back, I think I was just lonely, bored, and horny. Solution? Maureen. Then, I kinda got obsessed. But love? No." Another pause. "I loved someone else, actually." Pause. He looked away from the camera. I couldn't be sure, but I think he said, "And I'm just finding that out now." He took a deep breath and looked back at the camera.
"So I bet you're wondering why by now," he said, seeming to change the subject. "Why I'm not here to tell you this myself."
Why I'm listening to the click of this damn projector and not your voice. That was cruel of you.
"Why I'm dead."
Why you left me here alone. It makes me do mad at you. How long's it been? How long did it take to gather the courage to watch this? A week. A week of pacing and wondering if you were coming home and then remembering you weren't, not ever. A week enough to hate my best friend.
But still I watched.
He leaned forward.
I stared as his silent lips formed the words.
"Because it was you."