His Glorious Death Pt.3

“You know what I want?” He said.

“Uh, duck bills and weird ass boats?” I guessed

“Nah, that would be too cheesy. By cheesy I mean unreliable; corrosive; yet too vague. I want something more... longlasting. Probably something like watching my name being craved in the holywood floor of fame, if I still have the time”

“But was is more sad or more glorious, though, to have your name craved there?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, look. Why the heck would you want your name that will later on only be stomped all over the place by bypassers when they will only know you if you are interesting enough for them to learn about? Not to mention the morphine you’ll make yourself insert if you’re desperate enough?”

“Damn. I guess you’ll always take the negative side of shits, eh?”

I just smirck at his commentary.

“So... What was it like in you head; of a glorious death?” After a minute he asked.

“It was more of the social work for me, really. Nothing as interesting as yours to put all that butt-power to play ex-machina for hollywood kind of shit” I saw his eyes gleaming with what small detail of explanation I let him.

“What kind of social work? That idea of yours sounds weird, but awesome!”

“You don’t need to pretend, though. Most people, I found out, are too fake to be interested in what elaboration I have for more than just ‘social work’” I told him; somewhat annoyed

“No no, seriously. Let me know. I want to know what you virtue”

“Well... It’s basically serving people before the destruction happens – intentional disasters or the non-intentional ones. I don’t want to be the hero after the shit happens – everybody wants to be the hero then; without actually helping anything but rebuilding the worldly structures. I mean, don’t get me wrong – the worldly structures are important. But I am seeing beyond that; I want to go deeper beyond just “physical” matters: I want to reconstruct their soul. I want to help people stay sane – if that was sane enough for people to understand; in which I am in constant doubt” I told him as we walked down the road to his house, hand in hand

This is another reason for loving Josh, you know. He was almost always interested in what I have to say about life. He knows me better than anyone does and weirdly enough, I seem to always feell fulfilled with those times when he just listens and agrees with what I have to say. That was one of the examples of one afternoon of our chats. This next one is our another.

Even though he didn’t show much of it to the people that didn’t know him well, I learned one thing that was essential for life during my friendship with Josh. It was one summer day during sophomore when Josh came to my house and brought me some hot green tea latte and a caramel macchiato for him and two double cheese burgers for us. He told me:

“You know what? Being nice like this shouldn’t just be among good friends or lovers like us – it is supposed to be an easy knack for every human being in the universe; which becomes hard because we have a choice. I’d say I’d blame it on the way humans just wants to be noticed but not as observative or as caring as some others tend to be”

“Wait, do you actually hate them for it?” I asked as I chewed my burger.

“Hate them? Nah, too much work. I just... want to help them as much as you want to help those in the social needs you once mentioned. I just liked the way people look when I am being thoughtful; even if it was just your mere affection on me when I bring you food.”

“Over food? DEFINITELY! I do like you. A LOT.”

And then he blushed.

Josh – the extroverted half of my life. Sometimes, I do get jealous of Josh, really. Everybody loves him; everybody lights up when he’s around; he makes every step seemed lighter than it should be. I’d wish to be like him in someways – to be as extroverted as he is or to be as energetic as he once was – but if he’d trade everything he’s had to have an introverted life like mine, well, I guess it’s already a good thing to be an equal to the extroverted life you wanted, right? To balance what spotlight he’s had with your private relationship?

Even to his last days, Josh is still the Josh I knew would amuse people with his stories. He always sees the world so positively I thought he’d got loads of them until the last doctor trip before his Last Good Days and he was conscious enough with only my attendance without anyone else’s intervention in the room.

“Val” He croaked

“Hey Josh, I’m here. What’s up?” I answered as my hand finds his

“I... are you, um, up for stories?”

“Yes. Yes I am. What is it?”

“ I feel... defeated. Am I defeated already, Val?”

“Nope. You’re a fuckin champ. Why did you even say that? For what damned reason a champ like you said it?”

I held his hand tighter and waited for a few seconds before he continued:

“I don’t know if it’s devastation or was it the tumor, but I feel like I haven’t done enough; that I want to keep breathing to make you happy – to make everyone else happy. But my body literally has given up to breathing. So I don’t know what’s been keeping me taking and wasting another litre of oxygen every minute if it wasn’t for just you and only you. I am at war with my body, Val; my body is damaged by my brain. It is a tug of war for the last few months. I didn’t wish to continue. None of their comfort is comforting. I want for your comfort – but I know you know it; no easy comfort is comforting.” He told me without one moment of hestitation.

My vocal chords were strained; if not of mere accusation of his chosen link of words then it was of guilt. I understand exactly what he meant.

I knew it because I’ve written what he said. He’s quoting what had been written by my hands; the things I’ve posted in my blog a few weeks ago. And I couldn’t be more wrong if I say that he’s feeling what I felt; and he knew that I knew the truth about our worldly fights and whatnot. But more importantly, he knew that not even I can give him comfort to his pain.

That moment, I could only close my eyes and let my chin rests on his hand I was holding while a drop of clear water drops down unto his hand.

I knew he’d read me all throughout, just the way I wanted it. But why does it feel wrong? –red

TO BE CONTINUED