"She was selling candy," Boris said, "You can't say no to a little girl selling candy, even if most of them are from well off families who don't need the money to begin with."
"You're a real sentimental person, aren't you?" Father Krickett asked, smirking. The two men were seated on a bench downtown, just taking in the view. That morning, as Boris had gone to get them lunch for the afternoon, he found a young girl with a card table stashed outside of the deli, and when she told him she was selling candy bars to secure her future for college, well, Boris couldn't just say no to that. He happily bought one, a Mars Bar, the same candy bar he'd loved as a young boy. Sitting here now, admiring the wrapper as it was still unopened, he could feel a twinge of nostalgia in his heart. "It's a right of passage, I think," he said, "to sell stuff as a kid to adults that they don't need. Wrapping paper, magazine subscriptions, candy. I think it's something you have to do or you don't have the full childhood experience." "Right, because unchecked capitalism is what makes one wistful for the time of your youth, not growing and learning and playing," Father Krickett replied, the both of them laughing. He opened his sandwich, tore open a mustard packet and applied it, then closed the sandwich back up again, taking a bite. "It's more about sharing that with every other kid," Boris said, "like...like it's a universal thing every child went through, so you don't feel so alone. Does that make sense? Kind of like losing your baby teeth." "Not sure that's the best example of shared childhood nostalgia," Father Krickett said, "but I get where you're coming from. A shared sense of commonality amongst your peers. So why did you pick a Mars Bar?" Boris looked down at the candy bar and he felt his eyes tear up. How could he ever explain how a Mars Bar had had so much unexpected impact on his life? How could anyone ever understand it without experiencing it themselves? He sighed and looked up at the school across the street, watching kids playing on the playground. Boris smiled weakly, remembering how he used to pretend he was going to be an astronaut, how he was going to go to Mars, be the first human colonizer on the planet. And how, in the end, all he got was a candy bar. "It's all about attachment," Boris said, clearing his throat, "it's about the things that were a part of your life, whether knowingly or unknowingly. I don't think I've ever told you about my family. My mother, my father. My mother was...god...she was a different kind of woman than the other women in her time period. She was science focused, interested in pursuing the future in a way that would only be dreamed about later on. My father was supportive of her, which, again, was unlike men back then. I took after my mother a lot. We shared a love of literature, a love of science, the future. The future always seemed hopeful...at least until you experience it." Father Krickett nodded, sipping his coffee from his styrofoam cup and listening closely. "...but I suppose it's somewhat an attachment to what my mother represented. Hope. The future. At least until those things are taken away from you in an instant. I tried to raise my daughter with the same beliefs, that she was capable of anything, but I did it the wrong way. I chose what she should be capable of, instead of letting her choose for herself. I tried to be my mother, but I failed. I even failed to be my father." "Nobody should be their parents," Father Krickett said, tossing his trash in the can beside the bench and wiping his pants off with his palms, "god forbid, that's the absolute last thing anyone wants to become." "I didn't know what to be," Boris continued, "but I did know one thing...and that's that a Mars Bar was crucial." *** "You're looking better," Jenn said, bringing Melody a bowl of soup as she sat up on the couch, groaning a bit as she moved. "Yeah, well, it was mostly superficial I'm betting," Melody replied, "but either way, I guess it's good not be so physically disfigured that everyone can instantly tell I survived something I put myself through. The last thing I want is to answer questions." Jenn sat down on the couch herself, sighing and looking at her nails. "I know you probably don't wanna hear this," Jenn said, "but...I think it's good to answer questions. Being asked things are how we internally identify who we are and what we believe in. It forces us to renew our perspective, see if it shifts and changes over time. Realign ourselves with our new morals and ethics and beliefs." "Aren't morals, ethics and beliefs essentially the same thing? Why do we need three words to express one idea?" Melody asked, causing Jenn to stop talking. Whittle, who had been in the kitchen and overheard the conversation, moved into the living room behind the couch. "Do you have any family we could contact? Any friends? Anybody? Because if so, they're probably worried and-" "First off, no, I don't have anyone, and secondly, even if I did, they wouldn't be worried, I can assure you," Melody said, eating the soup Jenn had brought. Whittle and Jenn exchanged a look, then Jenn got up from the couch and followed Whittle back into the kitchen. Whittle started the dishwasher, as an effort to hush their voices further so they wouldn't be heard. "She can't just live here," Whittle said, "she needs to be in some kind of facility or, barring that, with people who know her." "You heard her, she doesn't have anyone who knows her." "I don't know that I believe anything she says, honestly," Whittle remarked, "she's dodgy about everything, and she tried to run her car into our apartment complex. She's not exactly a reliable source of information." "We could take her to the hospice," Jenn said, shrugging. "She's in her 20s, she's not elderly," Whittle replied, "besides, the last thing they need is someone with her viewpoints on living. Carol has enough work cut out for her keeping everyone upbeat there as it is. She doesn't need some sad sack parading around, declaring to everyone that they too should try to end their lives, seeing as how close to the end they already are." Jenn peeked back out from the kitchen to the living room, watching Melody eat, and sighed. She knew Whittle was right, but what could they really do? They couldn't just turn her loose. Besides, Boris would have a thing or two to say about that if such a decision were to be made without him. Suddenly an idea crossed her mind. "I could take her to church," she said. *** "I never knew you were so into the stars," Father Krickett said as he and Boris walked down the street, passing through a nearby park. Boris was still admiring the candy bar wrapper in his hand. "Well, it wasn't so much the stars themselves, but what they represented," Boris said, "growing up, reading pulp science fiction dime store novels, the future was always presented as hopeful. Space was this vast frontier of unexplored possibilities that could only improve our lives if we managed to somehow tame it. So it was more the idea that we had a lot more chances at something great...instead, we got the future we got, and we rarely go to space now." Father Krickett nodded, silently acknowledging that Boris wasn't wrong. He could remember being a young boy and watching space shuttle launches himself, eager and excited at the scope of what they meant, but now...now they were lucky if they even sent a supply ship up the ISS on a regular basis. Space had gone from a thing of grand wonder to another in a long line of mankinds failures to control the universe. "I still don't understand what the Mars Bar has to do with any of this," Father Krickett said. "...my mother was a writer, like me, and she was in the middle of writing a collection of short stories that took place on Mars," Boris said, "unfortunately, she got so sick that she eventually lost her energy to write. It wouldn't be until years down the line that I realized what she had was Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, something that wouldn't be recognizable nor diagnosable for years afterwards. Now instead of writing, she just did the bare minimum of upkeep around the house, including very little cooking, and this was when my father got angry. Said she wasn't upholding wifely duties. While he slaved away in an office all day, she was here, essentially 'resting'. Their marriage started to break down, but now my mom had no creative outlet to turn to." "Good lord," Father Krickett muttered, "that sounds like it must've been stressful to grow up around." "Yeah, which is why my mother didn't want me growing up around it and sent me to stay with her sister for weeks on end," Boris said, "the last time I went to see my aunt, I was sitting on the front porch, and my mother gave her what bit of writing she had accomplished for that collection...and a Mars Bar. She told me that no matter what, the stars were always reachable if I just tried hard enough." Boris stopped and looked at the candy bar in his hands, feeling his eyes water up. Father Krickett put a hand on Boris's shoulder. "...when I came home, she had been committed to a hospital, and I rarely got to see her after that," Boris said, "and try as I might to take her words to heart, much like the love of a parent, the stars are inaccessible to some of us. Some of us will never be astronauts, and some of us will never have mothers." *** The church was nearly done at this point, and would likely be opening in the next two months. Walking through the chapel, Sister Jenn couldn't contain her pride over the hard work she and Father Krickett had put into it. Melody and Whittle followed a little bit behind, both seeming rather uneasy to be here. As they passed by a pew, Whittle smirked. She remembered the first time she'd kissed Jenn, right here on one of these pews, and how, in a way, maybe church wasn't such a bad place afterall. "Why did she insist on bringing me to this place?" Melody asked, "my legs are still very sore, I don't really like walking." "Well, get used to it," Whittle replied, "sorry, not to sound rude, but, you're not handicapped. You're gonna have a lot of walking left to do in your life, might as well strengthen up now while you have the downtime. As for why she thought this was a good idea...Jenn has this belief that church can be a welcoming place for anyone if they just let it." "Do you let it?" Melody asked, and Whittle folded her arms, chewing her lip. "I...I do, I think," she said, "that doesn't mean I'm religious by any means, but it's nice to know there's a building out there dedicated solely to the security of my soul, and in making me feel heard and understood. Not every church is like that, for the record, but they've put in the effort to make this one understanding to anyone and everyone, and non judgmental, and I think that goes a long way." "So you don't think God would hate me for trying to end my life?" Melody asked, and Whittle shrugged. "I'm not the nun, that's not for me to say," she replied. Melody scoffed and headed ahead, catching up to Jenn, who was now looking at a large stained glass window. Melody stopped alongside her and looked up as well, then looked back at Jenn, who smiled happily at her. Melody had to admit, religion seemed to bring Jenn a kind of peace and zenlike attitude she'd never before seen on someone, and she was somewhat jealous of that. "So, uh...do you believe in God?" Melody asked, and Jenn exhaled. "I think," Jenn said, "whatever name you want to ascribe to it, that there's a higher power of some sort in the universe that cares about our well being. People point out the flaws in this, of course, 'oh why would God have me suffer like this if they care so much?' but...suffering is just a part of life. You can't have pleasure without pain. Happiness without sadness. Tears without joy. To block out one is eliminating an entire spectrum of emotions. It's a dangerous slippery slope. But I don't think God themselves is necessarily orchestrating all the negativity either. It's random chaos. They're just here to watch, and help us when we need it. When we need someone to listen, because nobody else will." "So...you do believe in God?" Melody asked. "I believe in what I like to call The Inevitable Whatever," Jenn said, smiling brightly, "there's something out there, we'll find out eventually regardless of if we want to or not, and since we can't have definitive proof of its existence, I have no right to name it, so it is whatever it is. It's the inevitable whatever. But knowing that something loves me...something wants me to be safe...that brings me peace of mind no matter what." Melody nodded, listening. She was beginning to understand. She wasn't going to rush out and join a convent, or anything, but she did see the comfort in believing something, whatever it was, only had your best interests at heart. There was a level of love in that that nobody else in the world could give you. A level you just had to have faith and hope in, and that was where Melody fell off. She struggled to have faith and hope in anything now. "It's pretty cool you built a church," Melody said. "It is, isn't it?" Jenn replied. *** Boris and Father Krickett had stopped at their usual diner, getting an early dinner. But neither had spoken much since Boris had told his story about his parents, and Father Krickett, admittedly, didn't really know what to say in response to it all. He'd rarely seen Boris break down like this, and it made him nervous. Sitting there, reading through the menu, John sucked air through his teeth anxiously while Boris tapped the table with his fork. "...do you know where Nilda Avenue is?" Boris suddenly asked, and John looked up from his menu. "Uh, yes, actually I do," he replied, "I used to do sermons out there from time to time when I was just starting out. They'd send me in while they looked for other preists to take over for full time duties. Why?" "My childhood home is on that street," Boris said, "and I think I'd like to see it before I die." "Well we can easily arrange that," John said. "It's funny," Boris said, "you spend your whole childhood waiting to be an adult, escape the places you grew up in, and then as soon as death starts to creep in, it's the only place you wanna go back to. Circular irony, I suppose. I haven't been back to it since I left, I wonder if it looks the same or it's been renovated." "What it looks like now doesn't matter, what matters is what it looked like then, during the time it mattered most," John said. "That wasn't the time that mattered most," Boris said, coughing and chuckling as he reached across the table and held John's hand, adding, "this is." John could feel himself wanting to cry. He wanted to break down and beg Boris not to leave him, even though he knew he had no choice in the matter. Death waits for nobody, and it comes for us all. But...it felt impossibly unfair to meet someone who got you, who cared, and then who left. John had had so many people he loved leave already, why did Boris have to leave too? John's belief in his faith had become shaky, to say the least, but instead of crying or giving into the sadness, he just smiled, swallowed his gloom and nodded in agreement. Because, in a sense, Boris was right. John knew even now that, no matter what else happened with the rest of his life after this...the time he'd spent with Boris would be the most important of all, and he'd never trade that for anything. "I'll take you home," John said.
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John Krickett had written a number of eulogies in his life.
He'd written one for his brother, one for his boyfriend, he'd even written a small thing for Polly, but wrtiing something for Boris...that just felt wrong. Sitting at his desk at the church, he just couldn't bring himself to come up with words to describe Boris, and especially their weird relationship. He heard someone knock on his door and he looked up to see Sister Jenn coming in in her street clothes - hip hugging jeans and a mustard yellow turtleneck - approaching his desk cautiously, almost as if he were a wild animal she didn't want to spook. "How's it goin'?" she asked. "Well, for it to be going well, it'd have to be going at all, so," Father Krickett said, making Jenn laugh. "Do you want some help?" she asked. "Nah, this is far too personal," Father Krickett said, "but thanks for offering, I appeciate it." "Well, everything is finished here for the day, so I think I'm gonna go, if that's okay," Jenn said, "I have a date." As she turned to leave, Father Krickett set his pen back down and called after her, causing her to stop and look back at him. He cleared his throat and shifted nervously in his chair. "...how..." he started, "...how do you...process something like this? It's weird, because...because, whether it's my brother of my boyfriend, I spent considerable time with both of them, but...but some reason it's different with Boris. We have a much deeper relationship, somehow, and I don't know how to sum that up in an eulogy. A eulogy is supposed to be short, sweet, to the point. But that isn't what a relationship with someone is, whether it's platonic or romantic, so how do you process this and make it poignant?" "Well," Sister Jenn said, "I guess, maybe, just focus on what you've managed to teach one another, shaped eachother into who you are now. I think that's the best approach, honestly. Because that's what the takeaway from any relationship, platonic or romantic, is, right? How you change one another. How has Boris changed you?" Father Krickett chewed his lip. That was a good question, how had Boris changed him? He knew he had, but he couldn't quite place his finger on it. He nodded, and with a wave of his hand, dismissed Sister Jenn, who turned on her heel and exited swiftly, excited to get to the apartment and pick Whittle up for their date night. However, Whittle, at the moment, was a tad preoccupied with watching Boris and Melody talk as she prepared for her night out. Boris was sitting on the couch beside Melody, both eating honey roasted peanuts from a container and talking quietly, almost as if to not be overheard. Whittle pulled her compact from her purse and looked at herself in its mirror, checking her makeup one final time when the front door opened and Sister Jenn trotted happily in. She walked right up to Whittle in the kitchen and, leaning up on her tip toes, kissed her, making Whittle smirk. "...are you okay with leaving them here alone, together?" Jenn asked, and Whittle shrugged. "Can't give up my whole life just for the sake of others, right?" Whittle asked. "...you're a nurse." "Right, probably not the best example," Whittle said, the both of them laughing. Whittle took Jenn's hand in her own, their fingers entwined, and said goodbye as they exited the apartment. Once the door was shut, Boris groaned and stood up. "Finally, I thought she'd never leave," he said, going into the kitchen and grabbing a bottle of Whiskey and two glasses, bringing them back to the living room and pouring them each a glass before sitting back down on the couch beside Melody. "You know," Melody said, her voice less hoarse than before now, gaining some of its volume back, "I wasn't drunk when I decided to try to kill myself. I think far too many people assume suicide is often attempted while drunk, but I rarely drink. I hate the assumption that one can't just want to die without the help of intoxication. That life simply can't be that painful." "I agree, it's laughable," Boris replied, sipping his slowly, "I used to drink a bit, but not much anymore, but now I'm wondering why not. I've got a time limit. Might as well enjoy what time I've got left, right? At this point, vices can't hurt me anymore than I'm already hurtin'." Melody snickered and nodded in agreement. She took another handful of peanuts and dumped them into her mouth, chewing for a bit before getting a sad look on her face. "What?" Boris asked. "The thing is..." Melody said, "I don't even know that I wanted to die. I just...didn't want to live. I wish there were some sort of middle ground, you know? Some sort of plane in between where you don't have be alive or dead. I guess a coma might constitute that, but even still. I just wanna go back to what it must've been like before I was born, whatever that might have been." Boris nodded, listening, as Melody continued. "It infuriates me that people just assume that life is a good thing for any and everyone, regardless of their situation or feelings on the matter," Melody continued, "They simply can't comprehend the idea that, for some people, existence isn't a good thing. That they didn't have good families, that...that no matter how hard they try, or how long they try for, it won't get better. That being alive is simply being in pain. We grant that sort of understanding to the terminally ill, but if you have a lifelong mental illness, aren't you also terminally ill? Why validate one then ignore another?" "I have to admit, you bring up an excellent point," Boris said, "but the fact of the matter remains that it's their narrow minded tunnel vision of life that gives them that perception. They can't see from the shoes of another, because they can only experience their own. Even at their lowest, they can't fathom there being something lower. Now, some can, certainly. Some are capable of tremendous empathy to the level that, yes, they'll recognize that for some people, being alive, ill or not, is painful and not worthwhile. But those people are rare, it seems. Ultimately, I agree with you, that one should be allowed to take their own life in their own hands regardless of the passive aggressive manipulative 'what about your loved ones' mentality, especially when most of the people who feel this way might not even have loved ones to consider." "And if their loved ones cared so much, why don't they help more?" Melody asked, and Boris nodded, pointing at her. "Exactly. Talk is cheap. It costs nothing to say 'I'll be there for you' but when the time comes, when the chips are down, rarely do they follow through because that takes commitment, action. People don't like putting their money where their mouth is because it forces them reckon with the acknowledgement that they might not actually be as good as people as they'd always considered themselves to be and who wants to downplay their own morality?" Melody smiled softly, nodding as she ate more peanuts. For all the folks in the world she could've been saved by, it just happened to be the one who really understood her. There was some kind of sick irony in that, she thought. *** John, his legs up on his desk as he smoked a cigar, couldn't come up with what he wanted to say because, quite frankly, he wasn't sure he wanted to say anything at all. Why share something so personal, and make it everyones business? He should keep it close to his chest. This was something he and Boris shared, not something Boris shared with everyone else. John and Boris had been through the mill together, so why, at the very end, should he allow that history to be viewed by others when it was rightfully just theirs? He exhaled smoke and sat upright. Still...he thought...still there was the matter that Boris had other people in his life. Others who could speak for him, speak of him. Surely John wasn't the only one tasked with writing something for the eventual funeral. Carol had to be going through the same motions. Maybe even Burt, or Whittle. He thought back to Polly. He wondered what Polly might have to say, had it been Boris who'd died that night instead of her. Surely she'd have done what he ultimately did, and make it into a joke, because that was the sort of relationship they'd had. John sighed and stood upright, beginning to pace, one hand in his coat pocket as he smoked his cigar. Maybe Jenn was right, maybe he should just focus on how they changed one another because, for all things considered, both John and Boris - and both had acknowledged this regularly - were not the same people they were when they had met. John had let some of his barriers to connection down, while Boris had grown to take responsibility for his actions, both present and past. They'd truly helped one another turn new leaves, and grow as human beings, and that was something that only really deep friendships managed to achieve. What had John really taken from their relationship? The ability to truly care for another person again, that was for sure. Before Boris, John was coasting on his skills as a preist to care about others, without getting too attached. But now...now he was truly capable of being attached to another person. But the thing was...could he manage to be attached to another person that wasn't Boris? That was the real question, because while he'd gained new worldviews by being involved with Boris, could he truly take that and apply it to another person? He loved the old man more than he was willing to openly state, and he was worried that that wouldn't transfer to being close to anyone else. What could one say about a man who managed to help you feel anything at all again? That was the question he had to answer. *** Jenn and Whittle were sitting on a small wooden balcony outside of a seafood restaurant, waiting for their food to arrive. Underneath the table, Jenn was running her foot up against Whittle's leg, making the both of them chuckle. Whittle raised her wine glass to her lips and took a very long drink, while Jenn batted her eyes at her, making Whittle blush. "You're so damn cute," Whittle said as she set her glass down, "...it's nice to be able to openly say that. I stayed with my boyfriend for so long cause I was scared of trying anything else, and being bisexual seems to net you a rather negative reception more often than not, people wanting you to choose a side for some reason like sexuality is a sports team, but it's nice to be able to just say, now, that you're so damn cute and not feel embarrassed about admitting it." "I understand," Jenn said, playing with her utensils absentmindedly as she looked at the table while she spoke; "I pushed myself so far into religion to avoid the things I felt, that when I started to feel something for you, something I could not ignore no matter how hard I tried, I knew I was screwed. But that was kind of the whole point John and I had about making a new church. A place where you can be yourself, and God loves you regardless. Hopefully it'll be finished before Boris...well..." "Yeah," Whittle mumbled, trying not to think about the unavoidable inevitability that was heading straight for them. "What do we do, when, ya know, that time comes?" Jenn asked. "You could move in," Whittle said, "and we could turn his room into a kind of religious study if you want." "You don't think his ghost would take offense at that? Haunt us for it?" Jenn asked, the both of them snickering. "No, I think he'd find the whole thing very moving," Whittle said, "...the thing I've learned about Boris during the tenure of our friendship is that...he might not believe something himself, but he'll never shame you for believing in it. Hell, he'll even openly defend your beliefs against others who might agree with him initially in his disbelief. That's true friendship. He'd think it's beautiful to see us move forward, utilizing the space for something new and good." Jenn nodded, thinking about what it would take, emotionally and otherwise, to make that a reality. She sighed and ran her hands through her hair. "When I was a little girl, well not little little but you know, like a tween," Jenn said, "I remember being in Sunday School and learning about Joan of Arc, and instead of thinking what a hero she was, albeit perhaps not in the traditional sense, how pretty I found her. I disclosed this to one of the girls I was friends with there, who then shared it with everyone else, and I was kicked out of that particular Sunday School class. My mother never understood why because, thankfully, nobody told her, but I learned to keep that to myself after that moment." Jenn's eyes rose, meeting Whittle's again, and she smiled warmly as she reached across the table and held Whittle's hand. "But I don't like being hidden anymore," she continued, "and getting to know Boris, knowing that he hid himself from the world as well...I don't wanna be like that. I want to be happy and out and proud, maybe not super vocally but on some sort of level, you know? I used to lay in bed and fantasize about what it would be like to have a really milquetoast life with you, just doing ordinary, mundane domesticity. Shopping for furniture and...and stuff like that. Cause the house I grew up in was so damn bleak, emotionally distant, that I didn't have that experience and I want that warmth." Whittle blushed and Jenn looked away again, almost as if embarrassed. "...I am so in love with you," Jenn said in a hushed voice, "in...in ways I didn't know I could be, and that makes me so happy." "Yet again, you're so damn cute," Whittle replied, picking up Jenn's hand and kissing it softly. Whittle had to admit, she'd never seen herself giving into her bisexuality, and allowing herself to be with a woman, but Jenn...Jenn was so comforting, so soft and caring, how could she not fall for that? Especially in times such as these, where the future was fraught with such uncertainty, where her oldest, best friend was preparing for the end...how could she somehow ignore the gentle kindness that was right in front of her, willing to smother her in affection? She was glad she caved, because she couldn't see herself with anyone else now. Soon their plates arrived, and they spent the night sharing seafood with one another, at times feeding eachother playfully from across the table, and Whittle realized now what she'd been missing the entire time she worked at the hospice. That place, as one would expect, was so steralized that it had infected the whole of her being. And she didn't want to live a sterile life anymore. *** Melody and Boris had, at some point, finished the bottle of Whiskey and Boris was now laying on the floor against the front of the couch while Melody stretched out across it fully. Neither one was speaking, but it wasn't like they had to. They each knew what the other was thinking. That was the small comfort they shared, was the ability to feel the same way about the biggest things. "I used to have this little book," Melody said, "of daily affirmations. These stupid little phrases that you repeat throughout the day, one for each day, as if a few words were going to make life more bearable. They didn't help. I mean, I tricked myself into believing they might, but the moment I lost my book, that's when I realized I was lying to myself." Boris nodded, listening, as she continued. "If you have to lie to yourself every single day to keep through it," Melody said, "then maybe it's better to face the facts that you're just incapable of being happy. I'm just incapable of being happy. All I feel is fear and sadness and anger. I've never once felt happiness. I've lied, and said I do, or played pretend so as not to upset others around me, but the fact of the matter is that I cannot feel joy." "Joy is overrated," Boris said, "joy is only reserved for specific situations. Birthdays. Graduations. Weddings. The moments that it's socially unacceptable to be unhappy for, regardless of how sad you actually are. Which is hilarious because each one of those things...they come with abject sadness attached to them. You celebrate a birthday but you hate getting older. You celebrate a graduation but now your childhood is over. You celebrate a wedding, fully acknowledging it'll likely never happen to you. Yet we're supposed to feel joy over these things? Laughable." Melody nodded, digging into the container for more nuts, scooping what was left into her palm. "And what's worse," Boris continued, "is that the singular moment you might feel relief, even joy, is your own death. The release from all the pain. And yet you can't even feel it cause you're fuckin' dead. The universe is just an enormous joke on those of us capable of seeing it for what it is." Melody nodded again and finished chewing, clearing her throat. "I'm not a bad person for trying," she said. "Not at all. If anything, you're brave. That doesn't mean it's for everyone," Boris said, "but it is for some people." "My parents...they used to take me to church sometimes, mostly for holidays, and I always remember being told God loved me, but only if I lived by his rules. If I killed myself, somehow I was sinning, even though it's what was best for me. How can God be all loving, then turn around and be judgemental for something that's right for me? Is there even a reason to believe in anything?" "...I think there is," Boris said, surprising her as he added, "but not for the reasons you might think. If God wanted us to live by rigid rules, he wouldn't have given us free will. So take the comfort that there's something out there that loves you unconditionally, and it makes the universe a lot less hopeless." Melody slowly nodded, taking this in. She hadn't expected this misery fest to devolve into a religious debate, but she had to acknowledge that Boris's statement had some logic to it. If she ended her life, and there was some kind of afterlife, would she arrive before God and be welcomed with open arms? Would he be understanding? She wanted to think so. Was that preferable to the nothing that death likely actually was? Yes, in some ways. Peace was peace, regardless of how it was perceived. "I just wanna stop being in pain," Melody said. "Amen to that," Boris remarked. *** Whittle and Jenn were laying on Jenn's couch, Whittle on top of her, holding her face, kissing her deeply and warmly, gently. Jenn couldn't contain herself, letting out soft moans and squeaks of happiness at this intimacy. Whittle pulled away for a moment, and rested her forehead against Jenn's, their fingers laced together. Jenn breathed heavily, trying to catch her breath, and in the dim light of her living room, Jenn finally understood what she'd been missing all these years by denying herself her truth. "I guess it's true what they say," Whittle said quietly, "you treat a girl to a nice dinner and she will put out." Jenn cackled, which made Whittle laugh a bit as she continued to kiss down Jenn's soft neck. Both had opened themselves up to the world again, and found solace within one another. This was the exact thing Father Krickett was trying to grapple with himself in his office still, sitting at his desk, pen in hand, cigar stubbed out in the ashtray beside him, as he tried to put into words what Boris meant to him. He bit his lip, chewed for a moment, then started writing. He only wrote one line, but he felt like that one line was enough, at least for a time being. Boris, being a writer, would understand how hard it could be to find the right words to explain something. "Boris Wachowski was here," he'd written, and frankly, what else needed to be said. Sure it sounded like something a teenager would write on a bathroom stall, but...sometimes flowery language wasn't needed. Sometimes bluntness got the job done. And with that, John Krickett got up and left his office. He'd return tomorrow, likely work on it more because one sentence didn't equate an entire eulogy, but hell, it was a start, and a start was better than nothing. Even God, he thought to himself, when creating the universe, had to start somewhere. "Do you actually believe in the afterlife? Does belief come from being associated with the church, or is it a personal thing? One might assume that you might be swayed by the surroundings and imagery of your workspace to believe in something if you normally wouldn't," Boris asked.
Boris and Father Krickett were sitting at their favorite local diner, in their usual booth, eating sandwiches and drinking coffee. Par for the course for their general daily luncheon. "First of all," Father Krickett said, wiping his mouth on his napkin and then folding his hands on the table, "I don't really like calling what I do 'work'. It kind of devalues it. I like to think that I serve a higher purpose. I'm not in an office somewhere filing papers. There's a real calling to what I do, and I'm capable of actually helping people with it." "You just insulted every secretary throughout history," Boris scoffed as he lifted his coffee to his lips. "But, I think your assumption is correct, sure, one could be convinced if one were in the right headspace and the right place, but you have to remember, I decided willingly to go into this field. I wasn't raised in a particularly religious household. I mean we went to church on occasion, but only when it was deemed societally expected, like Christmas mass, stuff like that. Otherwise my folks were pretty distanced from the idea of any kind of religious thinking. They didn't shun it, but it wasn't the basis for their morals." "You're not answering my question, you're doing that thing where you just ramble about semantics only remotely adjacent to it, without answering it. You really like to hear yourself talk, you should get a radio show," Boris said, making Father Krickett chuckle. "Yes, Boris, I believe in an afterlife," Father Krickett finally said, "but I have to admit that that belief may come at the expense of having survived severe trauma. Belief in the afterlife is, and I hate to admit this but, more often than not a coping mechanism for peoples grief. They can't fathom the concept that those they loved so dearly are no longer of this plane of existence, and so it helps them to think that maybe they're somewhere else, safe, taken care of, still able to see us. Me personally, I think it's pretty fifty fifty in my case. Certainly some of it is a direct response to what happened to me, around me, but some of it - in fact most of it I'd even willing to say - is just a genuine belief in a higher power of sorts." Boris finished drinking his coffee and nodded, listening. He sighed and picked up his sandwich. "Do me a favor," Boris said, "if I die before you, which is very likely considering the age difference between us, please give my eulogy. You speak beautifully." "Will do," Father Krickett replied, laughing, "what about you? You believe in anything?" A moment passed as the waitress stopped by and refilled Boris's coffee mug. He took a bite from his sandwich, chewed for a bit, swallowed and then finally sighed. "I think, when you reach my age, you start to believe in it whether you want to or not, because the idea of nonexistence is so goddamn terrifying that, really, the alternative is worse. So you cling to whatever hope you can get of there being something after death simply to spare yourself the pain of there likely not being anything after death. Sometimes that can lead to true belief, but most deathbed conversions are, in my opinion, the brain simply trying to grant itself some relief. Do I personally? Probably not. I think it's very unlikely. I'm not saying it's not possible, but I'd be surprised if it turns out to be true." "If it does, please try and give me some kind of sign from the other side," Father Krickett said. "God, even dead you won't stop giving me busywork," Boris remarked, the both of them chuckling. This conversation had taken place shortly after Polly's death. Neither had any idea how relevent it would become. *** Boris pushed the door to the apartment open while Sister Jenn Whittle helped carry the woman from the car inside. They laid her out on the couch, as Boris came over to the couch and sat down on an ottoman, watching her closely with Sister Jenn while Whittle went to call the hospital. Boris glanced over at Jenn, who was holding a rosary between her hands, clearly praying, and he smirked. "I haven't done that in years," he said. "I don't do it for myself," Jenn admitted, "but I do it for those in need, or who I care about. I just...I don't understand what could drive a young woman to want to end her own life. I understand why some people might do it. The terminally ill, for example-" This made Boris feel a bit more comfortable around Jenn, hearing her say this, considering his recent interest in the topic. "-but," she continued, "at first glance, she doesn't seem sick. She doesn't seem terminally ill, anyway. Course invisible disabilities exist, but...it's just so sad. I need something to drink, do you want something?" "No, I'm okay, thanks," Boris said, as Jenn got up and headed to the kitchen. He continued to think about what he'd been doing the moment before this woman had run into the wall beside his apartment. He himself had almost attempted to do the very same thing, albeit in a less violent manner, and then he thought about the car accident. After all these years, here was another car accident, and this time he'd managed to actually get this girl out before any long term damage could be done. He clasped his hands together, elbows posted on his knees, as he hung his head and just listened to the deafening silence surrounding him. Suddenly he felt something gripping his wrist, and he looked up, the woman on the couch looking at him with one eye half open. "Don't...call anyone...please," she begged, and Boris felt his heart race. "But...but you might need serious medical attention, you might-" "They'll put me under supervision," she said, "I can't...I can't have that." Just then Whittle entered the room, on hold on the phone with the hospital. Boris looked over at her, and she looked over at him, their eyes locked. Boris looked back at the woman, her one good eye pleading with him as much as an eye can plead. He sighed, stood up and walked to Whittle, took the phone from her and hung up. Both Whittle and Jenn stood there, completely surprised by his actions. "...nobody calls anybody," Boris said, "you're a nurse, you watch over her, we'll take shifts." "Jesus, Boris, she might-" "This is what she wants," Boris said, looking back towards her and adding in a low whisper, "and after a lifetime of denying women what they want, I wanna give one what they want." *** Carol was sitting at her desk when the door opened and Burt came in, reading through the mail. As he reached the desk, plopping it down, Carol stood up and went to the nearby coffee machine in the office, pouring herself a cup. Burt sat down and sighed, scratching his head. "Ya know, nobody tells you this, but running a business is just 90% paying bills," Burt said, "why is all of life just revolving around paying bills of one kind or another? I swear to god if I die and go to heaven and I have to pay bills, I'm going to punch God right in his stupid bearded face." "What do you care, they're not even your bills," Carol said, chuckling as she sipped her coffee. "I'm mad on your account," Burt said, "God forbid a man show righteous anger for the right reasons for once." Carol laughed loudly, heading back to the desk, sitting down and setting her mug down before picking up the mail and going through it one by one. After a few moments of silence, the door to the office opened again, and this time Boris walked in. Carol smiled upon seeing him, as he high fived Burt. Boris walked right to the coffee machine and poured himself some before looking at Carol. "To what do I owe this sudden arrival?" Carol asked. "A woman tried to kill herself in front of me last night," Boris said, sipping from the mug. "Yeah but that's par for the course for you, right?" Burt asked, smirking, making Boris chuckle. "She drove her car directly into the wall near my apartment," Boris said, continuing, "now she's just resting in Chrissy's...in the guest room. I wanted to take her to a hospital, but she insisted on not going. Said they'd commit her for observation." "Well, she did try and kill herself," Carol replied, "Seems only justified that that's the action they'd take." "Well, I'm of the belief that one shouldn't be punished for doing what they feel is right for them," Boris said, "You're brought into this world without your consent, but you have no say in when you leave it? What's the point in having supposed 'freedom' if you can't even act for yourself in a manner befitting of you, so long as it isn't hurting others. And one could make the argument, I suppose, that your suicide would hurt those who love you, but death is inevitable, you're gonna die anyway, so all you're doing by not helping yourself is putting off their pain to a later date. Anyway, I didn't call the hospital." Carol looked at Burt, nodding. Burt understood, stood up and exited the office, shutting the door behind him as he went. Carol sighed, stood up and smoothed out her dress, then walked around the desk, hands behind her back, thinking. After a moment, she stopped at a window and looked out at the garden for Larry and his wife. "Boris," she said, "I know your perception on the futility of existence is a tad...warped, at the moment, considering your terminal status, but are you sure you're doing what's in her best interest? I know she asked you not to call anyone, but...maybe she needs that level of help." "Are you doubting me?" Boris asked. "Someone has to, eventually," Carol said, "Whittle, Krickett, Polly...everyone else has always just gone along with your beliefs, always giving in to how you think. Even on the occasions you have disagreements, they eventually find a mututal understanding in how you feel. But therein is the difference. Those are about things that affect YOU and YOU alone. I'm thinking about her. I'm thinking about what could be best for this poor woman in your care." "Listen, Whittle's a nurse," Boris said, "she's got more than enough experience to help take care of her for the time being. From what we can tell, she doesn't have any internal bleeding or anything serious. Just some minor scrapes, cuts, bruises, stuff of that nature. I'm just doing what she asked me to do. I thought you of all people would understand." Boris slammed his coffee mug down on the desk, turning and heading for the door. As his hand wrapped around the knob, he turned and looked back at Carol. "And for what it's worth," he continued, "you're wrong. Polly, Krickett, Whittle, they've all fought me on various things. Just because you want to act noble, don't disparage others who you think haven't done the same." And with that, Boris exited the premises, leaving Carol to think about what he'd said. *** "I brought you something to drink and a sandwich," Jenn said, sitting down on the ottoman by the couch, putting a small TV tray beside it and placing a paper plate with a sandwich on it and a glass of orange juice alongside it. The woman nodded weakly, sitting up best she could and reaching for the food. As she picked it up and took a large bite, chewing, Jenn watched her with wide, happy eyes. "You know," Jenn continued, "when I worked at the church, we would have homeless drives. People would come in off the streets, be given food, shelter, help getting them back on their feet. I'm not calling you homeless, for what it's worth, I'm just saying this reminds me of that. It's nice to help people. It's been so long since I've been able to help anyone." "I appreciate it," the woman replied meekly, voice still hoarse, as she chewed; while she swallowed, she glanced around at the apartment, then asked, "do you live here?" "No, my friend Boris and my girlfriend share this place," Jenn said, then realizing for the first time she'd called Whittle her girlfriend, and it felt good. It felt right. She blushed at this realization; Jenn cleared her throat, then asked, "why did you do it?" "...I'm tired," the woman said, "So exhausted from fighting my own thoughts all the time. Everything is so hopeless. Nothing ever improves, no matter what I try and do, or how long I try and do it for. Everything just seems so...so stuck. I just didn't know what to do anymore. It feels like the right thing to do, to just take an early exit. I know that's frowned upon in your belief system, but-" "Actually, for what it's worth," Jenn said, interrupting her, "I am part of a new church that's all about autonomy. The priest I work with, he's always seen the church as far too restrictive on aspects of ones life that have no bearing on the faith. So, he and I started a new church that's all about simply being there for others when they need guidance, and is accepting of anyone, regardless of their belief system." The woman nodded solemnly, smiling weakly. "So, as far as what we think of suicide...even if we don't personally agree with it, we would never tell someone else they can't do what they think might benefit them best," Jenn said, "besides, isn't the whole point of going to Heaven to be reunited with God again? Why wouldn't he be happy you got there sooner?" The woman laughed a little, coughing as she did, making Jenn chuckle a little as well. "I guess you have a point," the woman said. "What's your name?" Jenn asked. "Melody," she replied. "Melody, I'm Jenn," Jenn said, "and you are among friends here. You are safe." And Jenn wasn't just saying this to make Melody feel better. This was really what Krickett and Jenn believed in. There was no point in shaming anyone for the things they did that they felt was best for themselves. So long as they weren't actively harming others, what was the real damage? Far too often priests and those within the church felt like they knew what God would really want from people, but the truth was in fact nobody knew what God would want, and to claim they did was just as blasphemous as sinning outright was claimed to be. The best thing they could really do was guide others to the best of their ability. Regardless of where that meant the people they helped wound up. *** Polly's stone was the cleanest in the cemetery, thanks to Boris coming by regularly and wiping it down. On his knees, doing just that at this very moment, he dropped the washclothe on the bucket lip and ran his hand down the smooth, grey and black fleckled marble, smiling at the sun glinting off the top of it. "Fancy meeting you here," Father Krickett said from behind him. Boris turned and looked behind himself at John, then held his hand out so John could help him up, which he did. Once standing, Boris wiped his pants off. "Yeah, well, might as well get used to being here," Boris said, "gonna be here for eternity, after all." "Solid reasoning," John remarked. "How did you even know I was here?" Boris asked. "Because you always come here at this time every three days," John said, "walk with me." Boris nodded, picked up the bucket, and together the two men started walking through the cemetery in silence. It was late afternoon, and the trees overhead were rustling gently in the wind as they walked beneath them. John smiled as they passed by some very old marble statuette graves, reaching out and touching one in particular as they did. "I've always found cemeteries to be peaceful," John said, "I know to most people they're just an uncomfortable reminder of what's to come. Most people don't like being reminded of their mortality, instead opting to ignore the inevitable, but I find some sort of comfort in it. The idea that life is finite, that there's an end to it all, like a good book has an epilogue. Everything comes to an end." "No matter how painful life is, eventually the pain stops?" Boris asked. "Okay, well now you're making it depressing," John replied, both men chuckling; John then asked, "Are you doing okay?" John, nor anyone else, knew about his near suicide attempt the night previous. John didn't even know about the girl in the car. Boris contemplated telling him about it all, but opted instead to play his cards close to his chest and avoid anything serious for the time being. There'd be plenty of time for serious things soon enough. So instead, Boris simply shrugged, and cleared his throat, pounding his fist gently on his chest. "About as okay as can be, I suppose," Boris said, "So, tell me then, John, do you think you'll go to Heaven? You think you're comfortable with the concept of your own non existence? I only ask since you've had so much experience around the subject, between your brother, your boyfriend, what have you." Father Krickett looked up at the trees and thought. They walked in silence for a few moments, before they stopped near a large tombstone, and John reached out, planting his hand on the top, just gently rubbing it. "I'd be a hypocrite to say I don't believe in Heaven when I preach about it," John said, "but the fact of the matter is, yes, I do, and yes I don't. It's outright ignorant to look around at the world and not believe there's not some kind of greater force at work here. Everything at a base levels works too well together. But does that mean I believe in the kind of Heaven and God the religions teach? Not necessarily. A power, of some sort, certainly, but not in the ways one might expect. I do look forward to the moment, but I'm also not hoping it comes any sooner than it should." Boris nodded, listening. "Polly wasn't scared," Boris whispered, "I hope I can show that same level of conviction in my final moments. That sort of fearlessness." "Just because someone doesn't show it doesn't mean they weren't scared," John said, "and there's nothing wrong with fear. Fear is natural. Ignoring it isn't. Come on, I'll buy dinner." With that, Boris and Father Krickett continued towards the parking lot. The entire time, until they were sitting down to eat, Boris couldn't get his mind off the woman from the car, and what her reasonings could possibly be for wanting to do the very same thing that Boris himself had wanted to do. He knew, in due time, he'd come to those answers. In due time, he and this woman would have ample understanding of one another, and in due time, perhaps, even mutual respect. The problem was...Boris no longer had due time. |
About
Golden Years follows the exploits of a bunch of old people in a retirement home as they try to have fun, relax or come to terms with the soon to be end of their lives. Archives
April 2024
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