Will is dead. When they found him he was swinging. Swinging in his dorm, surrounded by what he once loved, once aspired for. Swinging from his neck, his red and raw neck. Red and raw from the rope tied around it, red and raw like my heart when I heard. There's been an accident. This is no accident, my friend. That's what his note said, at least. It was not an easy-way-out note; it was long, sturdy. If notes can be sturdy. One could hardly call it a note but more of a will, a pun I'm sure he would have appreciated. Written on fine paper an artist or caligrapher would use, he detailed his life from the beginning. His hopes that he will never see, his dreams he will never fullfill, his children he will never have. Dreams even I didn't know he had, longings he never parted with. Secrets he kept until the end. He was a writer, no doubt. His will detailed every aspect of a future without him. His bedroom: clean it out, he requested. Give his money to his sister for college, his books to the local library, and his diary -- his most prized possesion -- to his girlfriend, his most treasured life story to me.
When they found him his lips were blue. Lips that had carressed my skin, lips that had whispered in my ear long into the night. Lips that shared jokes and spread ideas, profound ideas. Ideas that maybe, just maybe, could change the world. Could've. Lips that talked me off of my own ledge, that fateful night. The lips that I was unable to save. Lips now chapped, puffed. Lips like John Travolta's, who we always make fun of. Made fun of. Lips that will never whisper into my ear, lips that will never spread ideas, lips that will never talk another girl off of her own ledge.
And his voice, his scratchy, throaty voice will never speak another word. He will never murmur, "Stay beautiful, Erin." He will never twirl my golden curls, will never trace the scars on my dainty wrists. His hair will never brush against my cheek, his nose will never run. His hand will never hold mine, never hold his unborn children. His open arms will never embrace his mother, the mother in her child's arms. He will never laugh, never cry. His eyes will never flutter open each morning, and he will never see again.
When they found him, I did not believe them. I remebered reading somewhere that the first stage of loss is denial--but what is to be denied if he is still alive? Couldn't they resuscitate him as they did in LOST? It was not his fault that he was dead, it was their fault. They didn't try hard enough. My mother reasurred me that it was nobody's fault. It is always somebody's fault, I sobbed. It was my fault, then. For what I did, what I should have done. I should have said no, I should have... It was my fault that he was not alive. It is my fault that he is still not alive.
IT IS MY FAULT THAT HE IS NOT ALIVE.
Responsibility for an accident or misfortune.
What a funny word. Fault. Responsibility for an accident -- hah! Oh, but we have already decided that we are not handling an accident. I will not disgrace his death with MISFORTUNE. This is not a misfortune. This is cataclysmic, this is world-altering. Let's find a new word, shall we? I will not beat around the bush, I will not sugarcoat it with an extra kiss and a cherry on top, and maybe a sprinkle of fairy dust. This is manslaughter -- no, murder.
As I flip back through these pages, I see the writings of a twenty-something year old girl, an alien figure. It starts dark -- her early plans of self harm, blood drops scattered across the page. But when Will comes into the picture, the girl becomes light, from the inside out. No more covering up the sadness, no more dark shadows cast upon the frantic scratches of ink. Will Kimmerly did not save the protagonist of this story. Will Kimmerly is the protagonist, the hero, the savior, of this story. Without him, these mere drops of ink formed into symbols would be nothing more than a clean, white page.