MEnAce (peterick)

20 - Dallon

Eleven months ago today, when I moved into my shiny new apartment, I met someone. I met Breezy. We've been dating for nine months, and we live together. In a few years, we plan to get married and have kids. Two kids, a boy and a girl, and a dog named Zero. We've got a life ahead of us, and though I'm sure it will be a quiet life, it's going to be an eventful one.

But if you thought I was going to sit here and boast about how amazing the rest of my life is going to be, prepare to be disappointed.

After he walked out of that room, I never saw Pete again.

A part of me still truly hates him for abandoning me like he did; he disappeared, he left me alone, and he never came back. It hurt. He hurt me.

I still can't get my head around the fact that he refused to sit by my side and hold his lovers hand as he died. He forgot to remind himself that I was Patrick's friend, too, and that his loss hurt me just as much as it hurt him. He abandoned both of us without saying goodbye.

The rumours, of course, spread like wildfire.

"Didn't you hear? They found a body-"

"His boyfriend was the menace-"

"Apparently he got so depressed he killed himself-"

"Jumped from the roof-"

I'd heard them all, and worse still, I believed every word of what they said, and to this day I admit I still do. But I'm not going to dwell on them. Because with rumours come lies; a story woven into myth with each person who shares it.

Most of the rumours were probably assumptions. Of course, you'd assume he killed himself; he suffered with severe schizophrenia. He lived for two months, depressed and alone, imminently knowing that his boyfriend was going to die. No wonder he had suicidal thoughts.

But assumptions are things that can't be proven. So I've considered other possibilities, such that perhaps Pete ran away, and the doctors covered it up by faking his not-death. It's easy enough to understand, though it's probably false hope. No one in their right mind would let loose a seriously mentally ill person and blow it off like it's no big deal.

Regardless of what I think, whatever the real truth is, I don't want to know. And I'm not even going to attempt to find out.

Breezy is still laughing about something I said to her five minutes ago, her feet propped up on the balcony railing. "I know you didn't want to do anything in particular for the anniversary," she is saying now. "But are you sure you don't wanna do anything special for them?"

"Like what?"

She shrugs. "I don't know. How about an actual funeral?"

I scoff. "Funerals are for dead people."

As are graveyards and headstones. In short, the entire notion of death just doesn't feel right on my tongue. Which is why I decided I didn't want to give them monuments made out of stone. But I still wanted to have something.

We have a perfect view of our mantelpiece from out on the balcony. And every day, when Breezy and I sit out in the sun with a glass of whiskey in hand, sporting through many lists of future baby names, I can see them.

Side by side, pinned to the wall, are three cheap Ikea canvases; each painted a different colour, each inscribed with a message. Each something to remember them by.

Patrick, the Purple-Eyed Menace. A tiny man, but a bloody terrifying one. I was brave enough to be your friend, willing enough to get to know you. And really, aren't you just the cutest squishy little kitten?

Pete. Peter. You're an idiot, and I hate you. I don't know where the hell you are, and honestly I don't want to know. But wherever that may be, I sincerely hope you're happy. Thank you for everything. Stay safe.

And, in the centre, Brendon.

If he were still alive, I wouldn't have the slightest clue what to say to him. So I guess it's a good thing he's not around anymore. I almost decided to leave his canvas completely blank, but Breezy convinced me to settle with this:

Patrick and Pete were my best friends; I didn't deserve the amount of love they had for me. They aren't around anymore, so in essence, you got exactly what you wanted. But I want you to know that I am in control of my own life now. I am stronger than you. And as I write this, I'm sitting out in the sunshine with my future wife and a limitless supply of alcohol. So currently I'd say my life is damn near perfect. And I have you to thank for that.

All my love, D.

Of course, back when I'd written it, I'd still been grieving. I'd been confused and empty without a dominant figure by my side. By now, you'd think I would have had sense to change my mind and get rid of the signature, but I can't will myself to do it.

He may have hurt me in a million more ways than one, and I may have thanked Pete for getting rid of him, but I still reserve the smallest shred of love for Brendon. If he hadn't done all the horrible things he did to me... well, as cliché as it sounds, I wouldn't be here.

Neither dead nor alive. Neither loved nor hated.

Never gone, but sure as hell never forgotten.

"Dallon, are you alright?" Breezy asks, dragging me back to reality. "You look like you're about to cry."

"I'm not crying," I say, swirling my glass absentmindedly. "It's the whiskey."

She hums in approval. "I guess you're right, though. Funerals are expensive."

"Funerals are for dead people."

I shall stand by this fact. Because homes are for the living.

And we are home.