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.
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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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