The rest of the day passed like a daydream for Charlie. Hazel left shortly after listening to the voicemail from Michael, but Becca stuck to her word and stayed with Charlie until she had to leave in the evening to go to work.
Between comforting her brother and working to control her own emotions, Becca made phone calls to some of the people who it was felt deserved to know immediately of Michael’s passing. These included his closest friends, his boss at the restaurant he had worked at, and his brother Tim. Although none of the phone calls had been easy, the one with Tim had been the most awkward. Michael and his brother had never been close, though they did care about each other despite the emotional distance. Even so, Becca noticed that Tim’s response had been the least emotional of all the ones she had heard that day. Their conversation was also the shortest.
“That’s just how he is,” Charlie said when Becca mentioned it. He was reading while sat with his back resting against the front of the living room sofa. He had always preferred to sit this way rather than on the furniture properly. His sister had come in from the dining room where she had been using the phone, and was sat on the armrest of the sofa with her feet inwards and on the cushion. “He’s never been too great at emotional expression, I think. But it doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel anything.”
“Oh,” said Becca. She slid off the armrest and onto the cushions, pulling her knees up to her chest and hugging them. “What are you reading?” she inquired.
“Michael’s book.”
Michael had been an amateur poet since childhood, constantly writing poems and songs as a creative outlet and means of self-expression. Though he had written over a thousand pieces, it was only because of Charlie’s encouragement that Michael bothered to put the effort in to produce and publish a slim volume. Seventy poems were selected, including ten that were written specifically for the book. He’d titled it In Loathe With Myself, to sum up the depressed theme behind many of the entries.
Charlie was reading it now to connect with that self-hating side of his lost lover, hoping to find some answers in the words left behind. He wasn’t sure if it would make him feel any better, but it was what he wanted.
“Have you read any of it before?” asked Becca. Charlie turned a page, still reading as he answered.
“I’ve read it through a few times.”
There was a pause as Becca waited for him to say more, but soon realised a further answer was not forthcoming.
“I’ve not read any of his writing. Just heard him read a few things. Like at open-mics.” Michael’s anxious nature made performances rare for him, but they had happened occasionally. “I’ve not really read any poetry before.”
Charlie seemed absorbed in what he was reading; he showed no sign of having heard what his sister had been saying. Becca sat quietly for a few minutes, watching her brother as he intently scanned the same page of text multiple times.
“Charlie?”
“Hm?”
“Could I have a read of some of it, please?”
Becca noticed her brother’s grip on the book tighten slightly.
“Later,” he replied, rather stiffly.
After lunch, at which Becca ate very little and Charlie ate almost nothing, they went to the police station together. The officers there were kind to Charlie, though he spoke to them very little. It had been a lot of effort to get him out of the house, and it was proving to be a tough experience for him to be around so many people. At some point he felt glad that he had Becca there helping to get everything done, but he was unable to verbalise it. Instead, he tried to convey it through a tight embrace before she left in the evening. She needed to get to work, and he assured her that he would be ok. Becca had her doubts, but let her brother make his own decisions.
When he had shut the door on his sister’s departing car, Charlie stood in the hall for a time, unmoving. He was alone in the house again. He had a feeling that more people would try to make contact with him, either through the phone or by calling at the door. It was almost a certainty that Jeremy and Marie would attempt a visit.
Jeremy Hofmann and Marie Silvers were Charlie and Michael’s best friends besides each other. Charlie had joined the trio when he had started hanging out with Michael, over five years previously. They were fun and welcoming, and Jeremy and Marie quickly became as important to Charlie as Michael did.
It was Marie who had convinced Charlie to ask Michael out. Jeremy had offered first date ideas, using his knowledge of his friend of then-seven years to help Charlie make a great impression. They had gone to see a local band perform at a bar, and then gone to get pizza from a random kebab shop. It was the simplicity, Michael had once said, that had made it so wonderful. He loved music and he loved pizza. From that perspective, Charlie had made little effort at all and yet managed to give Michael a wonderful night. Michael had kept the bus ticket from that night, a memento to remember how much fun it had been. It was not a brilliant memento, but it was the only physical piece of evidence they had of their first date.
When the memories of that night had finished their flurry through his head, Charlie realised he wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing in the hall staring at nothing. With some asserted force of will to take the first step, he returned to his spot in front of the sofa with Michael’s book.
He was still obsessed with this physical evidence of his lover’s self-deprecation, self-hatred, and general malaise. There were poems about desire to self-harm and desire to die, about being the worst possible human imaginable, or the most hideous. There were some about Michael’s feelings of loneliness and isolation from the world.
Charlie read every poem several times over before moving to the next one. He played with rhythms, examined metaphors, and considered potential hidden meanings in the writing, though mostly the messages of the poems were fairly straightforward.
He found himself passing through hours with this activity. It became more fun than he expected; it was a challenge in his own knowledge of Michael and his life, and the idiosyncrasies he injected into his writing. Some of the poems predated their relationship, so Charlie felt himself getting to know his lover even more closely through this analysis.
Unexpectedly, Charlie’s mobile phone started buzzing and chiming on the table, and he jumped. He was getting a phone call, but had not the slightest inclination to answer it. He watched it cautiously as though eyeing an explosive, waiting for the caller to hang up. Eventually it stopped, although a few seconds after that it buzzed and chimed again. Luckily it only lasted a second this time; it was a text message, not another phone call.
Though irked by the shock, Charlie was still curious about who was trying to contact him. He grabbed his phone and checked. It had been Jeremy who had called him, but Marie who had sent the text. He assumed they were together, and that Marie had sent the message because of Jeremy not getting a response.
Marie was asking if it was ok for her and Jeremy to visit, as Charlie had expected them to want to do. He knew they meant well, and only wanted to see how he was doing, to console him as best as they could. Part of him considered that they would be grieving too. Perhaps they wanted to see him for their own needs, and not his. He stared at his phone for a few minutes, debating. With some feelings of guilt, he replied to decline.
“Not today. Another time.”
The day had been too long for him. He had seen too many people for him to handle, and the prospect of being with any more people, even his best friends, was too much. After a second’s thought, he quickly sent another message.
“I love you. I’ll see you soon.”
The same was sent to Jeremy. Charlie knew that they were owed a little something from him, assurance that he would be ok. He didn’t think that was true, but at least hoped to alleviate the worries of his friends.
It wasn’t long before replies from the two came, offering similar sentiments coupled with wishes for him to take care. Charlie knew he was lucky to have friends as understanding as them. They wouldn’t pressure him into talking, or receiving them in his home.
He made a mental note to try and see them soon. He did have some desire to be with them right then, but just felt too overwhelmed.
Though it was only early evening, Charlie decided to go to bed. His exhaustion had peaked, and there was nothing else he wanted to do than fall asleep and be ignorant of Michael’s death for a time. He didn’t bother eating.
Despite his plans for sleep, once Charlie was in bed he found himself reading for even longer. Michael had been putting together pieces for another small collection of poetry. The theme of this one was the four classical elements of wind, water, earth and fire, used as metaphors to elaborate other ideas. In this way, there were still plenty of personal poems in it. Charlie was looking through the ones Michael was considering for inclusion. They had been left on Michael’s bedside table.
Charlie’s motives had changed slightly from reading In Loathe With Myself. Whereas with that book he had been hoping to find answers, he had grabbed these out of a sudden, deep desire to connect with what Michael had left behind.
Until meeting Michael, Charlie had been much like Becca, and had paid very little attention to poetry. Even five years later, it was almost exclusively Michael’s poems that he read. He loved it. For Charlie, it was always wonderful to see Michael’s soul channelled into words and placed upon paper. Prosody had always been there to give Michael a way to give form to the feelings and ideas he had trouble producing out loud. To be given the chance to witness those personal insights was absolute pleasure for Charlie.
Despite the general enjoyment, there were moments when sadness took over and brought him to tears again. Yet still he read. With less intensity than before, though. He did not read through poems multiple times and analyse every detail in search of answers. Quite deliberately, he read them as he would have done if they were collected into a book as had been intended. As though Michael had handed him the very first printed copy for him to read. The difference, of course, was that he wouldn’t have cried while reading if Michael were still with him.
Sleep, when Charlie had finished reading and settled into bed with the lights off, did not come easily. The space in the bed beside him was nothing to the space in his heart, though it still brought its own feeling of unease. Charlie and Michael had shared a bed for over four years, with only a handful of occasions where they’d slept separately. And even though those nights had felt strange, Charlie had still slept knowing that soon he would be back in bed with the man he loved beside him.
That first night after Michael’s passing, all Charlie could think about was the night before, when they had gone to bed together for the last time. If he had known that it would be the last time that they would sleep together, be together, he would have done it differently. He would have hugged Michael tighter, kissed him for longer. He would have stayed up through the night to stare at Michael’s face in loving admiration of all those features so adored.
Instead, he had given Michael a peck on the cheek and a quick squeeze before rolling over and falling asleep.
Charlie inwardly kicked himself. He rolled over and screwed his eyes shut, intent on sleep. However, it was a long time before he was finally able to descend into a state of slumber.
Through the night he tossed and turned, trying to find a position to fall asleep in but failing. At one point he tried sleeping on Michael’s side of the bed, in hopes that his scent on the pillow might help him to relax. It only brought more tears.
At times he would sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the curtains, wishing he could see through the windows but not being able to motivate himself enough to rise and reveal the dark outside world.
Other times he tried turning the bedside light on and reading some more. He read Michael’s poetry, and also tried continuing the novel he had been reading. Despite his best efforts, he found himself unable to take any of the story in; after two pages he put it back down on the bedside table with the bookmark where it had been before he’d started.
His thoughts crowded his mind so noisily that even though he had gone to bed before nine in the evening, it wasn’t until nearly four in the morning that he finally fell asleep.
Charlie woke after only a few hours of sleep. He felt no effect of rejuvenation from such a short time of rest; what he had experienced in the night barely qualified as rest at all.
He lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. Without thinking, his arm reached out to his side to touch the form sleeping next to him… that wasn’t there. He had known, as his arm had instinctively extended to the other side of the bed, that all it would find would be emptiness. Still, it was a blow that made his face crumple.
Charlie could hear sounds from outside. It was the sound of people going to work. Children going to school. Dogs barking as they were being walked. He did not live on a busy road, so the noise was not constant or loud, but it made him think. It made Charlie wonder how there could be a world beyond the window that was continuing as though no one had died yesterday. His world had taken a fatal plunge off a bridge. What did he have left now?
He spent the rest of that day in bed. The only time he left was to use the toilet. He didn’t eat, or even drink.
He received phone calls, none of which he answered.
He received messages, some of which he gave short replies to.
Twice, at two different times, the doorbell rang, but Charlie didn’t even make an effort to see who was there.
By the time another night of fitful near-restlessness came around, he hadn’t uttered a single word all day.
ns 15.158.61.55da2
