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He’s alive.
He’s alive.
He’s alive.
It’s… unexpected? He supposes that’s the best way to word it… probably. It’s definitely not expected, which is unexpected in its own way. Unexpected, expected, unexpected being alive.
Doesn’t sound like a word anymore.
He’s sitting, he doesn’t remember doing that. He doesn’t remember a lot of things. He can remember that, at least. But it’s not like he needs to remember it, it’s obvious.
There’s always gaps—short, long, often, rare. They’re always there. He’s used to it. He’s not used to being used to it. He’s not used to a lot of things.
Huh.
He’s making no fucking sense right now.
Makes sense.
Sitting. He’s doing that. Right now. He wasn’t before, he was lying down in his bed. He has been—had been?—since the night before. He had been when midnight rolled around. He had been when 2am rolled around. He had been when 5am rolled around.
Did he fall asleep? Maybe. Maybe not. He can’t tell.
Gaps.
He’s used to those.
He’s sitting.
Unexpected.
He doesn’t remember getting up. He remembers lying in bed, and now he’s sitting on the side of it. He can see his feet touching the ground, legs hanging off the bed. He can see where the blanket was moved out of the way. He can see that.
His hands are in front of them.
He’s holding them up in front of him, palms faced down. Why’s he doing that? They’re just… sitting there.
Shaking.
Expected.
They’re always shaking. He remembers that.
He fucking hates it.
They won’t just stay still. They shake, and keep shaking, and don’t stop. They tremble. They spasm. They wobble. They fuck up.
They’ve always fucked up.
He remembers that.
Didn’t need to shake to fuck things up.
He’s used to it.
He has been for a while.
Legs.
They’re still in front of him. Still off the bed. Still touching the ground. He can see them. They’re connected to him, they’re supposed to be. Why wouldn’t they be?
He stretches his left leg out. It hurts—he thinks? It’s supposed to, expected to. He remembers that. It’s meant to hurt.
It doesn’t hurt.
It moves.
He doesn’t feel it.
It’s there, it moves, it’s his leg. It doesn’t feel, he doesn’t feel it. It’s static, numb, gray. It’s a loose limb, sitting there.
His other leg is the same.
Unfeeling limbs.
He can’t really bring himself to care about it. His head feels numb. His thoughts feel static. Everything feels gray.
Expected.
It normally feels like this, he remembers. This is his normal. The static. He expects it, it happens. He can’t imagine an existence where it isn't normal, he hasn’t been able to for a while. He’s not supposed to experience anything else.
He remembers that he has. He’s experienced flashes of yellow, flashes of blue, flashes of red. It’s not supposed to, but it happens. He wants it to happen more.
He craves it. He misses it, the moment it stops. He wishes for it to happen again.
Unexpected.
He’s so used to the gray.
Where are the colours—
He remembers.
The smell of coffee beans. The sound of people chatting. The feeling of a wooden chair under him. The taste of coffee, fresh on his tongue. The man across the table from him.
The man with short brown hair. With a scruffy beard on his face. With nice, blue eyes. Henry liked looking at him.
Henry’s cane is leaning against the table. There’s coffee cups on it too, one for each of them. The man had a sandwich in front of him too, half-eaten on its plate. Henry didn’t feel that hungry, he usually doesn’t.
He’s looking at the man again, watching him. Watching the way he relaxes and leans back in his chair. The way he keeps touching and scratching his nose. The way he’s smiling at Henry.
Henry can’t help but smile back. There’s a sense of calm over him. He can feel his body as it moves and shifts. The tremble in his hands didn’t annoy him as much as it usually does.
The man says something, “Any plans for next week?” The smile on his face falters. There’s a clear anxiety lacing his voice.
Henry’s hands flex uncontrollably, grabbing at air. The calm’s gone. A grimace that overtakes his smile. He feels a sudden creeping gray in the ends of his legs and tips of his fingers.
He replies with a harsh, “No.”
The man in front of him frowns. A painfully genuine, and sympathetic one. His hand starts tapping nervously on the table, before he speaks again, “Are you sure? I mean just— c’mon, it’s your—
Henry remembers.
It’s his birthday today.
No.
That can’t be right.
It’s not his birthday. It is. It isn’t. It is, he knows that. It has been since he watched the clock hit midnight. It can’t be. It’s impossible. It’s completely and utterly impossible.
Because he’s dead.
He died. He died when he took a blade to his arm, and covered everything in red. He died when he crashed his car, and left parts of himself all over the bridge. He died when he woke up in a hospital bed, and they didn’t.
It can’t be his birthday, because he’s dead. He killed himself and everyone he loved. He killed all of them on his birthday, when he crashed. They never left that bridge. He never left that bridge.
So it can’t be his birthday. Not now, not today, not ever again.
He remembers.
It’s his birthday today.
He knows it is, of course he does. He can’t forget it, he never will.
It’s his birthday, and there’s nothing he can do about it. He woke up, and there’s nothing he can do about it. They’re buried, and there’s nothing he can do about it.
There is nothing he can do about it.
There is nothing.
He’s crying.
His eyes are burning at the edges. There’s cloudiness flooding his vision. Tears are rolling down his cheeks.
He’s crying.
It hurts. He wants it to stop. It won’t stop. It’s not going to stop. He knows that. He always does. He always wants it to stop anyways. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. A deep and unbearable ache in his bones and flesh.
His head falls into his hands. His hands—that are shaking even more now. His fucking useless hands that won’t ever stop fucking shaking. Hands that couldn’t fucking kill him. Hands that killed everyone else.
He can feel the tears falling off his face. He can feel them roll down his hands and arms. He can feel more of them coming from his eyes.
Every breath comes in faster, and shallower. Each one more hurried than the last. He’s hyperventilating. He wants it to stop. Why won’t it stop? His heart is pounding in his chest, it hurts.
He just wants it to stop.
He misses them.
It’s his birthday, and they’re not here.
He remembers.
Books.
The smell of them. Seeing them lined up on shelves upon shelves. Holding one in his hand for a moment. Staring down at the same book on the floor, just a few seconds later.
He dropped it.
He really should be used to doing that by now. If he was, he might not feel as utterly shit as he does now. He might not have the urge to grab every book in that library, and throw them at whatever he could.
Picking up the book would certainly hurt. Just crouching down and grabbing the thing would make his entire body scream in an ungodly pain. Just to pick up a fucking book.
He doesn’t even know why he was looking at it. It’s some random history book he had noticed on a shelf, not even fucking art related. He could’ve walked on fine without grabbing it. He could’ve avoided fucking something else up.
His hand clenches uncontrollably hard around his cane. The goddamn shaking’s getting worse. At this point he might as well just let himself fall over, maybe he could just fucking read the book on the floor—
Suddenly the book’s being held up in front of him.
There’s a man holding up the book in front of him. Brown beard, scruffy hair, a nervous smile on his face.
“You—uh… kinda seemed like you needed—“ The man stopped whatever he was saying abruptly. The nervous smile turns into a nervous grimace.
Henry should take the book. He should thank whoever this guy is, and move on with his day. Just take the fucking book, and move on.
He doesn’t move.
They both stand there silently for a moment.
The guy looks between the book and Henry, still holding it out.
Then he speaks.
“It’s a good book, I’ve read it a couple times.” The nervous smile forms back on his face. “One of my favourite authors. He has some really interesting takes, different from the standard stuff. It’s… it’s a good read, you’d probably enjoy it.”
He looks between Henry and the book again, expectantly.
Unexpectedly, Henry finds himself taking the book from the man before he even realises he’s moving his own hand. He can feel the paperback cover; the weight of the book in his hand.
“Thanks,” the word falls out of his mouth on its own accord.
The man’s nervous smile stops being a nervous one. “No problem,” he replies, “You were just kinda staring at it for a while, so…” He shrugs instead of finishing the sentence.
Was Henry staring at it for a while? He can’t remember. How long has the guy been watching him? He didn’t even notice the man until he was holding a book in front of him.
“I’m a history teacher.” The man’s voice interrupts Henry’s thoughts. He’s still smiling whilst he scratches his nose. “You a history fan?”
Henry’s history knowledge mostly extends to art history, not much else. He doesn’t know why he picked up the book. He should just tell this guy No and walk away.
His mouth’s already moving.
“I hang out in cemeteries a lot, figured I could learn more about the people in ‘em.” He shrugs.
The man chuckles. It’s a soft and rich sound. “Not the weirdest reason I’ve heard someone get into history. One kid I taught said he liked history because it reminded him of escargot, like snails.” His smile widened, it’s nice.
Henry finds himself smirking, “Was the call on the French Revolution or something?”
The guy shakes his head, “Assasination of J.F.K, actually.”
“Right, should’ve known.” Henry jokes.
The man laughs. Henry thinks he might be chuckling too. He’s not used to it.
There’s a moment of just that. Them laughing. Henry can still feel the book in his hand. He can hear the sound of the man’s laughter. He can see the blue of his eyes.
Then there’s a hand held out in front of him, like a handshake.
The man smiles.
“Dan.”
Henry looks at the hand.
He takes it.
“Henry.”
Henry’s standing.
He’s looking out a window. It’s raining outside
No.
It was raining outside, the rain stopped. He remembers watching as it slowed down, and eventually stopped. He remembers watching somebody on the street close their umbrella. Someone else pulling down their hood.
He doesn’t remember walking to his window, or grabbing his cane, or getting off his bed in the first place.
Gaps. He’s used to those. They’re expected.
He does remember taking his meds. It’s murky, he was on autopilot, and he doesn’t remember entering or leaving his bathroom. But he remembers doing it
That’s good. He remembers that. He did something correctly even whilst fucked up.
Not used to that.
He’s still at the window.
He doesn’t have much of a view. He can see the drying concrete of the sidewalk and road. He can see the clouds still slowly clearing in the sky. He can see the few remaining droplets of water on his window.
And then something catches his eye.
The sun.
It’s barely peaking out from behind a cloud—probably about to get covered by another one—but it’s there. Henry can see the light reflecting off the puddles left on the ground. He can see it pouring onto the concrete. He can see it shining into his window.
He can feel his legs under him. He can feel his hand on his cane. He can feel his other hand shaking by his side.
There’s a cat outside.
It’s slowly plodding along the sidewalk. It’s black. some of its fur is sticking out weirdly, probably damp from where it couldn’t get out of the rain. It looks relaxed, every step is languid and gentle.
It sits next to one of the puddles. Henry watches as it lowers its head, and starts lapping at it. Right where the light hits the water.
He remembers seeing that cat before. It has a notch in its left ear.
Dan had pet it once.
It was late one night, Dan was walking Henry home. He initially offered to drive, Henry said no. He insisted on walking with Henry instead, Henry didn’t refuse.
The cat was lying down on a piece of discarded cardboard, just on the sidewalk. There was a soft smile on Dan’s face as he went over and started petting it gently on the head.
Henry remembers how the cat purred in response. Henry remembers how he smiled at the sight.
Henry hears knocking.
Unexpected.
He continued to stand at the window. He doesn’t know… what to do. He’s not used to this. He wasn’t expecting anyone—there’s no one who would be visiting him. There’s no one—
Henry remembers.
He hears the knocking again.
His legs are already moving. He can feel each step forward. He can feel his weight lean onto his cane. He can feel the pain he always does, numbed by painkillers.
And then he opens the door.
He’s met with Dan.
“Happy birthday!”
There’s a sheepish smile spread across his face. His hair’s damp and messy. He’s got a plastic bag in his hand, it’s holding some sort of box.
“I know you didn’t want to do anything, and I will understand if you shut the door in my face,” Dan’s voice has a giddiness to it, “But, I really think you should do something. So…?”
Dan waits for Henry to respond.
Henry takes a moment to… process.
The fact that Dan’s on his doorstep, wanting to celebrate his birthday. The fact that Dan’s shirt is wet on the shoulders, like he was trying to stay out of the rain and failing. The fact that Henry really doesn’t want to say no.
So he agrees, “Okay.”
Dam looks mildly surprised, “Okay?”
“Okay.” Henry moves out of the way to give Dan access in.
Dan smiles wildly and freely, “Okay.” He quickly walks in.
Henry shuts the door behind him, and follows as Dan walks into the kitchen. It’s small and barely used, though Dan’s made a sandwich here once or twice. There’s a table with two seats, Dan puts the bag on top it.
He pulls out the box.
It’s a chocolate cake.
One of those small and shitty store-bought ones. Dan also pulls out a box of candles that was hiding in the bag. Henry can see his face as he starts opening the bosses, he’s smiling.
Henry takes a seat whilst Dan continues dealing with the cardboard and plastic. His left leg’s sore, he doesn’t really care about it right now. He cares far more about the sight in front of him.
Dan eventually gets the cake out properly. He places the bag and box onto the small counter, off table and out of the way. He gets one of the candles out, before placing the rest of them on the counter too.
It’s a bright yellow candle, the wax is slightly scratched near the bottom. Dan pushes it into the middle of the cake, then takes a seat on the opposite side of the table.
His hand digs into his pocket. It takes a second, but he pulls out a lighter and flicks it on. Henry watches as Dan holds it to the candle, and the wick quickly bursts into its own flame.
“Ta-da!” Dan says proudly as he shoves the lighter back into his pocket. The smile on his face is bright and shines clearly. Henry can feel his own smile matching it. “Is me singing Happy Birthday on the table or—“
“Absolutely not,” Henry interrupts. The smile on his face doesn’t falter.
Dan’s smile only grows, “Figured that would be pushing it.” He carefully pushes the cake towards Henry, before softly saying “Happy birthday.”
Henry takes a moment to feel the heat emanating from the flame. To watch as the wax drips down the candle. To listen to Dan’s soft breaths as he waits patiently for Henry to go ahead.
Henry blows out the candle.
He’s smiling more than he has in a long while. He’s more present than he has been for however long. He’s happier than he has been in ages.
Dan’s still smiling when he leans back in his chair, and reaches over to the cutlery drawer to grab two forks. He’s still smiling when he puts one of them in front of Henry. He’s still smiling when he waits, with his own fork in hand, for Henry.
Henry takes a hold of it.
His hand’s shaking—as expected—but well… he doesn’t need dexterity to eat a cake, does he? He reaches forward and forks a chunk out of the cake. Dan follows suit quickly.
Henry finds himself speaking before he tastes it. “Thanks… for this.”
Dan’s voice is so clearly full of joy when he replies, “No problem.”
Henry nods, and then they taste his birthday cake.
The frosting is disgustingly sweet. The cake itself is horrifically dry. The filling is weirdly greasy. It’s just really shit overall.
Henry barely manages to get himself to swallow it. Dan’s face means anything, he’s also not a fan. He even coughs a bit after swallowing it.
Their eyes meet, neither of them say anything for a moment.
Then Henry smiles gleefully, “It’s terrible.”
“Oh absolutely.” Dan smiles back just as bright.
“Could’ve gotten donuts, or something.” Henry feels light with joy.
“Donuts? Birthday donuts?” Dan asks with a smirk on his face.
Henry shrugs, “Would’ve been better than this.”
“Fuck you.” Dan laughs.
Henry’s laughing too. It feels impossible, but he’s laughing and it’s amazing. Dan’s laugh is just as amazing, delightfully and warmly.
Henry takes another bite of the cake anyways, it’s just as bad as the first bite. He doesn’t care. It’s his birthday, he wants to eat some cake. Shitty or not. It’s his birthday, he wants to have fun. It’s his birthday, who gives a shit?
It’s his birthday, and Dan’s here with him.