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He smiled, though his heart was breaking. He laughed, though inside he was crying. And he grinned, though his life was ending. Figure skating is dancing, is acting; playing another’s role, living another’s life. He had played so many forgot when he started to lose his. Perhaps he should have been an actor instead. During an interview he gave a few months ago, he was asked where did he see himself 5 years from now. Not even in his wildest dream did he imagine he would already be in heaven. All those hard work, all those practice, so many things to do, to experience, cut short at 25. Denis Ten wanted to live. ‘Wanted’. He came to his funeral, a grand affair. He saw his body, cold pale and lifeless. His medals, gleaming beside him, seemed useless now. All those achievements does not mean a thing to death. So he watched from above, watching as the world continue to revolve without him, watching his friends continue the life he’d lost, of practice and competitions, of medals and routines. He watched the friends he remembered and saw the sides they’d hidden. Their ups and their downs, tears of joy and tears of sorrow. Sometimes he visited them, he remembered the helplessness of an injury, the squeezing of your chest as your lungs can’t seem to breath. So he does what he did best, helping others heal while he himself was damaged beyond repair.
Otabek closed his eyes. The memories were simply too painful. He was gone, Kazakhstan’s Hero was gone, his life and career cut tragically short. Denis Ten, Olympian Bronze medalist, first Kazakh to get a medal, murdered in the streets of Almaty at the age of 25. Murdered by punks who wanted to steal his car mirrors. An Olympian, murdered for car mirrors. It was unfair, life is unfair. Sometimes he wondered, how he died. He saw the pavement where Denis died, the pool of blood leaving behind a stain even after the soul was long gone. He could almost see Denis, lying for hours in the street as his life seeps away, dying, alone. Was he angry? Sad? Resigned? He saw Denis in the hospital. So pale, so fragile. His skin white, almost translucent, the colour drained from him. No, that wasn’t the Denis he wanted to remember. His phone had been ringing for hours now. He threw it.
“Beka…” a familiar voice startled him and he turned around in surprise.
“Yura, what are you doing here?”
“I took the first plane as soon as I heard the news, Yuri and Victor too. I’m sorry Beka, I knew what he meant to you.”
“He was Kazakhstan’s hope, it’s hero. He didn’t deserve this!” Yurio can only hold him as best friend broke down in his arms.
Victor stood next to Yuri at the funeral, Otabek giving the eulogy. He was crying, and so was most of the people in the room. Denis was too young, far too young to die. And only for car mirrors! Such a trivial reason to lose your life. He remembered his smile, the kind, open-hearted smile, the innocence of that warm-soul. His body was cold now, unsmilling. His medals were laid next to him, meaningless. All those achievements, the hard work, lost its meaning if the owner was no more. Death is equal, it doesn’t care. Death comes for everyone, and spares no one. The metal was cold, and so was his lips when they kissed him goodbye.