Dawn

From my seat on a hill, I watch as the sun tucks itself behind the horizon. The smallest stone casts shadows for miles. Even so, the only thought on my mind is “Why?”. Why did he do it? He had so much potential. He could have done or been anything. I would have done or been anything for him. I don’t know what I would have done or said if he had come to me before it was too late, but I wish I had done something. Perhaps that is my sin. The sin of ignorance has turned me into a hypocrite and the man I loved into a murderer. I wish that she had told me; told me everything he had done and everything that she feared. I don’t know what I would have done, but I could have said something. My inaction has cost her her life and him his memory. Unless one is arrogant enough to believe they will get away with it, murder is almost always suicide. How did they feel, in those final moments that they shared? I cannot pretend to know.

My heart races as I consider all the things I should have known. It’s too much. My brain is screaming at me for my arrogance and interpersonal slothfulness. I don’t want to feel this way. I don’t want to be here. I need an escape, and I will take any that will spare me from this agony. Sleep will give me some solace. I choose to lay my head back and surrender myself to an all too familiar dream. A dream I find far preferable to this reality.

My vision fades into a light blue sky with a set of soft clouds. I am lying on the ground. The sun is bright. The ground is warm. The asphalt scratches my cheek. Something must be wrong. My chest hurts, and I hear indistinct shouting. The sun is blocked out as someone steps into its path, their face obscured in silhouette. Metal glints in their hand. I raise my hand, immediately understanding what had occurred. Blood. I have been stabbed.

Why did they stab me? I probably deserve it. I have caused so many fights in my life, by mistake and on purpose. I have probably done it once more, but now I am finally paying for my arrogance. I wish I could see their face. What face do they wear? Are they happy? Did they slay a monster in their eyes? Are they angry, pushed into an act they never wished to do? Are they sad, knowing they will be buried by society, almost as dead as me?

We humans love to hate. My loved ones will dump their grief at the feet of my killer in the form of rage, but they will be outnumbered by those that are simply looking for a new target to hurl insults and abuse at. But those people will forget and move on soon enough. Then my killer’s friends and family will do the same. The world will not cry for them. My killer will be forgotten.

Will I be forgotten? I think I will, in part. My parents wouldn’t; you don’t forget the loss of a child. My sister probably won’t think of me daily. It will hurt, but that hurt will fade. Soon, I will be a shadow that sits behind her more relevant thoughts. I hope my cousin forgets me. His father was worthless, and I don’t want to be another man who abandoned him. I would rather be forgotten than resented by someone I love.

Will people cry for me? My parents won’t. I have never seen them cry. My mother loses herself in sentimentality rather than be submerged in grief. She will post hundreds of pictures on the days she feels I am gone. My father will rage against the world and himself. He will smoke, drink, and spend money recklessly�"anything to hoard tears. My sister will. She had been my closest friend in recent days, and I must believe the feeling is mutual. She will not let me go easily. Though, I hope my cousin will. I held my hands out during his first steps. I listened to his voice as he said his first words. To hear that voice twisted in anguish as he stumbles; it would destroy me.

My killer will be far more alone than I would be in death. Mr. Killer, I promise to remember you. I promise to cry for you. So, please, don’t forget me. Don’t let me die alone.

I feel their hand reach down to caress my cheek. I can finally see their dark eyes glistening with moisture. A warm tear makes a path from my forehead to the bridge of my nose, and finally down my cheek. That is when I hear a soft, fragile voice.

“I’m sorry you have to die alongside me. Killing you will be my greatest sin. I feel there is a demon inside me. The demon will not allow me to let things go. I will bear my grudges of years long past until I pass too. This demon won’t let me forgive you. I’m sorry. I cannot tell you how sorry I am. If it is any consolation, I will be here for you as long as I can. Feel my warmth. Feel the weight of my heart and know that yours is greater.”

I feel their palm against my face, warmth pooling around my rapidly cooling body, and wonder whose voice that was. It sounded like words I would have said.

A man I called friend and looked to as a brother was similarly warm. He was born to burn, after all. I must have met him just as I was starting high school, and we stayed friends for nine years. He had an energy about him as he danced around the room, like a flame desperate to grow beyond its candle. He would ask more questions than I knew how to answer, though I would try my best.

I don’t think I appreciated how strong he was at the time. I watched as gasoline, powder, and napalm were hurled at him in attempts to make him explode. He would wipe himself clean, laughing like it was all some joke. I would take his rags of kerosene and pass along new ones that were clean, never considering how much those attacks must have hurt.

He seemed to have been raising himself. His mother had long since burnt out, barely smoldering. His father was out of sight and mostly out of mind. His mother had long since forgotten him. He would confide in me that he was afraid that one day, he would be alone. His mother would simply forget about him and move on, as though he were never there to begin with.

Eventually, he met this girl. They seemed like a match made in heaven. He showed so much strength and warmth in his resistance to the hate he received endlessly. She was so bright and kind that those attacks would leave his mind. Together, I thought they would shine brighter than the sun. When they looked for a place where he wouldn’t have to cleanse himself constantly, I was happy. I thought that maybe, she and my friend would be everlasting.

Well, one day, he did burn. He burst into flames, running and screaming for help. Only one person did. She walked up with another rag to wipe him clean of the fuel, and she caught too. She caught, and she burned, and she burned until there was nothing but embers glowing weakly, until they too faded. I tried to hold on to what remained, but it was like trying to take hold of smoke.

When he was finally caught, they locked him away. They called him an arsonist, a demon, a murderer. No, they all had seen what was happening to him. None of them would lift a finger until he was the problem. Now an innocent girl is dead, and he was their victim too.

I’m awoken by the sun against my face, accompanied by the wind throwing my hair around and a weed grinding against my neck. Something feels wrong. Something had been wrong for a long time.

My mind snaps to memories I would rather forget.

I remember reading an article: “Arrested for murder in the first degree, age 20.”

I remember looking for a way it was wrong: “It’s all a misunderstanding.”

I remember reading a coroner’s report: “Skull fracture, bite marks, blood under her fingernails.”

I remember crying as I drove down the highway, screaming until my lungs ached and my throat was raw.

I remember reading a sentence: “45 years for murder, 15 for kidnapping.”

I remember the burning hate in my gut.

 I remember my heart and mind being shaken by my grief.

I remember thinking that people will only know my friend for his crime. Even his mother would forget him.

Hey, Mr. Killer, I promise to remember you.

I had wondered if I could have saved her for a long time. I wonder if I could have saved him. But something feels different. Why isn’t there a voice berating me anymore? My heart feels like an anvil, but it isn’t being weighed by my guilt anymore. I can’t understand what is going on. It’s like I’ve seen a flash, but there is no thunder. I don’t wish that I could shrink away from the light, and have my life be forgotten. Before I realize what I’m saying, some unfamiliar words dance on my lips.

“Oh… I want to live…”

I want to live? I want to live! When was the last time I wanted to live? When was the last time that I knew that death didn’t seem preferable?

People speak of this feeling with a sense of childlike wonder. That’s wrong. I feel a tightness in my chest. I feel fear shaking my heart. It’s heavy; the weight of a human life. Even so, it is delicate. One false step and it is shattered.

I feel… oddly strong. I feel stronger for bearing the will to live. I want to see the sun rise over the horizon and know that the world is better for having me here.

I remember watching my friend struggle as I helped him with his homework. I remember my pride at seeing him cross the stage at graduation. I think my efforts were not in vain. I think I like helping people, even if it ends in tragedy.

I can’t help but chuckle as the grass tickles my nose. It is only now that I notice how cool the breeze is as it wafts through my hair, tossing it a bit. It’s nice, laying in the warmth of the sun. I raise a hand above me, and it’s clean. There’s something much more solid that I can reach out to hold.

Author's Note

Most of my poems appear in my collection, In Memoriam, but I figured they'd be better to have individually as well. This one serves as a conclusion to the collection. I'll probably reupload everything as a book at some point, but I'd like to develop my skills a bit and edit them first