Michael Jeffrey Lee
The night you died, Japh and I were supposed to attend a going away party. Not yours, someone else's, an acquaintance you were not fond of. We were about to leave for the party when I suddenly said to Japh, "We should probably go check on him. I haven't heard from him in three days and I'm getting worried," to which Japh replied, "That's probably the right thing to do."
We drove the Volvo, the same vehicle you had used to move your possessions a few weeks before. My coworker, your landlord, whose house you defiled the night you died, would, days later, in an effort to lighten the oppressive mood at the restaurant, refer to the Volvo as The Doom Wagon.
To avoid any unnecessary drama, in case nothing was actually the matter the night you died, Japh and I used the pretext of the going away party to gain access to the side gate which led to your apartment. "He was supposed to come with us to a going away party," we said to your landlord, my coworker, as she stood in her own doorway, "but he's not answering his phone."
This lie was quickly exposed, when, after she unlocked the gate, and Japh and I walked around back, saw your lights on, knocked repeatedly at your door, and found it locked, we returned to the front of the house, and were forced to explain why it was imperative that we be let into your apartment.
But it was your landlord's husband who let us in. If he was at all fond of me before the night you died, he was understandably less so after. According to another coworker, he resented my failure to mention your history of depression and suicidal ideations when recommending you for the apartment.
As we stood outside your bathroom door, Japh and I gripped each other and attempted to prepare for the coming horror. "Let's be strong," we said, unfortunately resorting to cliché. "Are you ready? Yes, I'm ready. Ok, let's do this."
I'm certain you didn't anticipate this the night you died, but as soon as I turned the handle, your body, which was pressed against the door somehow, tumbled out. I jumped back and screamed, Japh jumped back and screamed as well. The landlord's husband, who was behind us, also jumped back, but instead of screaming he groaned.
The night you died, while you lay on the cold floor, I caught a glimpse of your face. Your eyes were suspicious, accusatory, half-closed, your mouth a slightly sardonic frown. It was a familiar look, a face you made often. But this time, as Japh noted, "It was wrong."
Several police cars arrived the night you died, lights flashing but without sirens. The lights would continue flashing, without stopping, for the next few hours, only heightening the lurid, carnivalesque feel of the proceedings.
We led the police to the back of the house the night you died, detailing exactly how we had come to find you. We pointed to where your body could be found, but did not, for the sake of our own mental health, enter with them.
The night you died, it was decided that I would call your father—I seem to recall, in a moment of ill-conceived bravery, volunteering. I scanned my contacts, but did not see his name. I reported this to Japh, who thought that Mil might have it, and walked to the corner and called him. When he returned, he reported that Mil said he did not have it, but knew that Gehn would, and had taken it upon himself to call her. Soon I received a message from Mil with your father's number.
Your father picked up immediately the night you died. "Mr. Smith, I have some terrible news," I began, and then told him, as gently as I could, what had occurred. After regaining composure, he asked what method you had used, and I told him. He asked if you had left a note, and I said I hadn't looked. He then asked that I send him your phone, your computer, your notebooks, a note if there was one, as well as any other objects we thought he might want.
Your landlord, my coworker, brought Japh and I mugs of hot mint tea the night you died. We drank our hot mint tea and shivered. "Just to be clear," she said, "were you really on your way to a going away party?"
The night you died, a detective, who had the face of a leopard, said he wanted to speak to me. I assented, and he suggested that we talk in his car, where it was warm. He wanted to know how long I had known you, and my understanding of your mental health. I told him everything, was completely honest, but when he inquired about your drug history, so as not to implicate myself as well, I said you had none.
The detective was also a bit confused as to your line of work, and asked if you were a nurse. It seemed that the scrubs you were wearing the night you died confused him. I explained that those were just your house clothes, that you wore scrubs by choice, that you found them comfortable, that you were a waiter by trade, like myself.
When they wheeled you out in a bag the night you died, Japh and I were caught unprepared, and only managed a meek goodbye. "Goodbye," we said softly, as they trundled you past. "Goodbye."
The night you died, the coroner's investigator, who had the face of a hectored sitcom father, asked Japh and I to accompany him back to your death room. Once inside, he asked that we re-enact the scene of us entering and finding you, which we begrudgingly did. "We walked in like this," I said, going out and walking back in. "And when we got to the door, I turned the handle and he came tumbling out."
"The thing I can't figure out," said the corner's investigator, "is what he hung himself from. He was on the floor when we found him—he wasn't hanging from anything." "It does seem like there are abrasions in the wood here at the top," Japh said, examining the door. "I'm no expert, but he might have knotted one end of the sheet, thrown it over the door and then closed it." But the coroner's investigator remained unconvinced. "Here's what I'd like you to do," he said. "Stay out of here until the autopsy results come back."
The night you died, Japh and I had an impromptu gathering at our house. Kelzey came, as did Wim, Scote, Morg, Jin, and Larsen. Perhaps there were others. We sat in a circle in my bedroom, and no one spoke. We passed a bottle around, around and around.
Later on, I received a call from the coroner's investigator, and excused myself from the circle. He had a few more questions for me—what medications you had been on, for exactly how long you had been depressed—and seemed highly suspicious of my answers.
I drunkenly biked over to Kelzey's very late the night you died, in need of a warm body. After talking, we made quick, extremely intense love in her bed. As soon as I closed my eyes to sleep, I had a vision of your face. Your eyes were open, you were smiling, but then you started hissing and I realized that you were trying to swallow me down into Hell.
Other Thoughts:
For several days after the night you died, I spent hours at the computer, attempting to write a story that dramatized the night you died. I cast myself as the protagonist, I eliminated Japh entirely. Its centerpiece was a hallucinated conversation between my character and yours. Those familiar with the situation found it a moving, if morbid, tribute, and those who weren't found it utterly baffling.
When Ghen and Mil came down the week after the night you died, they wanted to see the house. I walked them toward it, but right around the corner from it, I grew weak, and couldn't go any further. They were very understanding, and asked me to describe where it was, and what it looked like, which I did to the best of my ability. Soon after, they met me in a nearby park. They showed me a picture they had taken of your house. It was the wrong house.
A full year later, while in the midst of a psilocybin trip, on a farm quite far from where you died, I detected a whirring sound coming from deep inside the house, which caused my knees to buckle and my head to swim. It was a fan—someone had left a fan on in a bathroom deep inside the house, just as you had done the night you died.
Last Thoughts:
I couldn't open doors without fear for many months after the night you died.
It's a regret of mine that I didn't embrace you the night you died.
The night you died was not the actual night you died. The autopsy placed your time of death in the early morning, two days prior. I hope you'll forgive the cheap gimmick of the refrain—"the night you died to me" didn't quite have the same ring.
I've been wearing your boots, which I found while cleaning your apartment out, for several years now. When I leave town for good this summer, I will finally, if I am strong enough, throw them out.
I truly hope that I am not still thinking about the night you died on the night I die. That, it seems to me, would be a waste of precious time.
Postscript:
Much of this was composed at the coffee shop where we used to meet, at the same outside table where we used to sit, where the breeze would blow your beautiful, unkempt hair around, and where you communicated, a few weeks before the night you died, that every day was a struggle for you, that death reared its head to you every morning—afternoon—evening without fail, and that my hope for you—you were only 34, brilliant, wonderful—was greatly misplaced.