The Degradation (translation)

Chapter 6

I never understood why people mourn the dead. We must mourn the emptiness. Pain. A shortage. But not the dead, because the dead don't feel anything. We must mourn the living. Those who remained. Those who suffer from this loss, because the dead do not care. He doesn't suffer. He's just dead.

***
Louis' pov

The small hand of my watch, which turns in a regular rhythm. A blonde who winds a strand of hair around her finger. The nerd who turns the page with a big rustle. A librarian who types something on a computer and periodically wrinkles her nose to pick up her falling glasses. A spider that runs from one crevice to another. The ticking of the big clock hanging over the door. A pen that rolls down the table, and which I pick up again and again. I sigh. It seems that everything around me is much more interesting than the law book in front of me. I pull out my iPhone and check to see if the Anonymous Person has answered. I sent him a countdown in the morning, but no response. He didn't answer yesterday either. What if he's mad at me? Every time I think that we are able to establish a dialogue, it always slips away. And it's scary. There are only 31 days left, until the end of the countdown, and it seems to me that the first email was a million years ago. Although I still remember his «What would you do if you only had 100 days to live?». It's impossible, his question should make sense. He didn't just ask it. This is not the type of thing that is asked for nothing. The faster the days go by, the bigger that uncomfortable feeling in my stomach gets. Because despite what he told me, I know something is going to happen.

«I'm sorry»

And I click on "send". I'm not used to apologizing, but I don't want to lose him now. Not now, with so little left to go. I can't get the nagging thought out of my head that he's going to do something stupid. I sigh again and put the phone back down. I'm trying to focus on civil rights.

After all, I'm making good progress.

An hour later, I let go of the pencil and stretch slowly until my gaze abruptly stops on the silhouette. Not happening. I bring my hand to my forehead and frown as I feel three stitches under the Band-Aid. This must be a joke. After four days of complete disappearance, he's five meters away from me. Four days ago, I bled to death because of him, worried that nothing had happened to him, and he was just standing by the shelves. He looks down at his damned book, which he holds in one hand, and fiddles with the pen in the other. Yeah, it's probably just a joke. He can't be that brazen. But it looks like he is. Fuck, I've been worried about him for four days, and he's reading like nothing happened! As if he hadn't thrown me out on the side of the road after smashing my forehead against the side window, because that asshole was angry and drunk! I'm going to explode. He goes to the door and prepares to leave. I explode. I stand up, my chair creaking, and walk quickly over to him. He didn't see me coming. I push him hard.

"How are you doing? Is everything all right?"  He looks up at me, and I pretend to look him up and down, not hiding my disgust. I even grab the edge of his T-shirt and pull it back a little. "You didn't break anything?" He closes the book, placing the pen between two pages, and I continue to stare at him coldly. "Safe and sound?"

"Louis, not here –" he whispers and looks around. I do the same and realize that all eyes are on us, and I'm literally making a scene. Only I don't care. I'm too angry to pay attention. Four fucking days.

"What? Do people's looks bother you now?"

I see him clench his teeth.

"SHHH!"

I turn my head to the librarian, who is staring at us intently. But I don't care about her either. I turn my attention to him, and I'm already taking a deep breath to start yelling at him. But he doesn't give me time, grabs me by the elbow and drags me toward the exit, and I'm so surprised that I give in. When he steps out into the empty hallway, he unceremoniously turns me to face him.