Friend Of The Dead

Let Me Be Damned

Let's set the scene.

The curtains cut open like a red wound, and the lights dim. It's raining.

The spotlight concentrates on someone. Steady hands unveiling a truth to the world. In the center of the stage, crimson liquid pools, painting a crime onto the floorboards.

A hush falls over the crowd. They murmur amongst themselves, leaning forward, handkerchiefs clutched in their hands. They blink, intrigued.

Look closer.

Can't you see?

A boy lies dying.

Red surrounds him, covers him, blankets him in its grotesque warmth. Red leaves, red trees, red gushing in tiny rivulets down his smooth skin. The waxy moon gleams palely down onto his crumpled form, cutting across his face like light through broken glass. His lips, stained, part in a soundless cry. His throat moves, bobbing under the skin, aching with the movement. No sound emerges. He is empty.

Look now, believe it.

A boy is dying.

Another pawn on the board.

The players?

The girl who cheated and cheated to get more time than she was allowed.

Sophie Swan, one last game, one last battle for her. And across the chessboard? – Death.

***

Before the Final Act.

The last time.

I keep saying those words.

Strangely enough, I can't seem to escape them. Like they're permanently sowed to my coat-tails, following me wherever I go.

Last time, I say to myself as I meet Dorian at the little Café that had become our designated meeting spot.

This time will be the last, I mutter as I pick him up for another aimless day, no purpose in my time with him except exactly that, more time with him. Time to memorize every part of him. Time to meet and understand every aspect of human Dorian that I hadn't had the pleasure of knowing with my Dorian.

It will be the last time, I whisper under my breath as he walks away from me, looking back occasionally over his shoulder, that same smile on his lips that used to make my heart skip a beat.

Last time, I say over and over again even as he asks when we will meet again, even as I mentally prepare for the next time I see him. It's become a habit, some sort of prayer. As if promising that our next meeting will be our last will buy him more time, keep him out of Erlend's clutches. But that's exactly what makes me go back every time. The thought of him dying before I can stop it, of Erlend getting to him and losing my battle with Death. Just one more hour, one more minute, give me one more second of his heart beating, and I will leave him, as I should.

But my oaths are the words of an addict, I'll say whatever I have to for one more dose of him.

Does he notice? I think he does. There's an urgency in his voice when says when will we meet again, Not-Ridley? Not like mine, not the way I need him. Something more human and fragile, something that he depends on. I don't ask him about it because I know it will lead to follow-up questions and that's just what he wants.

Answers have become currency between us. He has his secrets and I have mine and neither of us is willing to reveal anything first. Every question answered is precious and rare.