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Stepping Inside and Out
by Mako
Author's Note: I do not own Darren Hayes or Daniel Jones, and I do not even
want to pretend like this scenario is real. No claims of ever meeting them
or knowing them are made, this work is just the product of my disturbingly
dark mind. Obviously, no money was made out of this little short thing, and
it was written for nothing more than emotional venting. Please send all
critiques to amir_fetish@hotmail.com; all are appreciated. Thank you.
Rating: PG-13 for theme.
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His last moments had been pitiful. Thoughtless, hasty, brought on by a
serious depression. Where there had once been a beautiful, top-notch
apartment, a small suite of rooms was nearly rotting. The wreckage of the
events that had occurred there had left an unpleasant aftertaste.
Blood stained on the wall. It had all dried to either black or a deep,
deep crimson, and the smell of death was obvious. A large splotch on the
otherwise large white carpeted pinpointed the suicide epicenter. The gun
and bullet shell had been removed when the police had found his body, but
just glancing down I could see the situation. It must have been awful to
stumble across it.
Daniel’s funeral had been held earlier in the week. His death was only
three days before that. Ever the emotional one, I hadn’t been able to
attend. It would have been to embarrassing to grovel in front of his casket
like that. No amount of begging could bring him back, and though I didn’t
like the fact, I had to accept it.
There’d been insanely delirious moments as I went to visit his grave, newly
dug and freshly flowered, notes lined up and teddy bears stacked to a
toppling pile. More were just outside the door to his apartment, and
millions of them lined the streets of Brisbane in his mourning. These I
could not bring myself to give to any charities. It was damagingly greedy,
but I could not bear to think of a child holding onto something so sacredly
meant for Daniel.
But the grave… I had wept as I knelt before it, wondering why and asking
all the terribly cliché questions. Why had he done it? What triggered such
hopelessness? What had I done to set him off so horribly? Could I have
prevented him if I’d paid more attention?
Every ounce in me had been drained before I came to the realization that it
wasn’t my fault. It was largely due to my family and Colby, my ex-wife,
that I was alive myself. Just after I’d heard the news on the radio, a
razor blade had found its way into my hands, and I was just pressing it into
my wrist when the phone rang and my mother tried to console me.
Still, after all that I hadn’t seen, it was very important for me to
witness the scene of the crime. The very living room I had sat in a million
times before was the same place he’d shot himself with a small handgun. It
was eerily different in the half-light of the Thursday morning, even apart
from every other Thursday morning in history.
Surprisingly, I wasn’t crying. Though shivers ran through me in random
patterns, not a single tear was shed, or did my eyes even water. All of it
was gone, my outsides hardened to the press and even to my family. Colby
had earlier remarked how out of character I was. Did everyone expect me to
stay the same even as my best friend was dead?
For that’s what he was all along. My best friend, my occasional lover but
so much more. Our relationship was stronger than any I had ever been in,
and although we’d had our share of fights, nothing big had come between us.
What it had been in the end was confused anti-social behaviors. He would
not answer the door when people came around to visit, and most every
friendship of his had gone null and void.
It was a fight with Michelle that thrown him down to the bottom of the
barrel, both literally and figuratively speaking. Michelle had always been
a problem for Daniel, their on-and-off affairs leaving him confused and hurt
every time. The fight they’d had must have been an exceptionally terrible
one, though she denied any wrongdoing. She’d actually asked me if I was
fighting with him, too.
Every hair on my neck stood up as I left the living room and sauntered into
the bedroom. Unmade bed, green cotton sheets that were dull and old thrown
off to the side. A half-empty pack of cigarettes and a few bottles of beer
were slung around on the bedside table. I had suspected it was alcohol
related, though the coroner had disproved my theory by making it quite clear
that there were no traces of either narcotics or alcohol.
I picked up a writing pad from underneath the bottles, reading carefully
scripted musical notes over a few time. New songs, something he never liked
for me to look at unless they were scrutinized and revised a million times
over first. Yet I could not find myself to put the notebook down as I
hummed out the melody.
Even without lyrics, which were my part to what had been Savage Garden, the
piece was dreadfully morbid sounding. Melancholy was not a strong enough
word, and the craftsmanship of the piece was not even comparable to any
other piece he had written. How long had he kept this a secret? I checked
the date on the top right corner, seeing it was just the day before his
death.
Maybe it hadn’t been as sudden as I’d thought.
I put the pad of paper under my arm and exited the bedroom, taking one last
glance and remembering the nights I’d spent in it, clothed and not.
Everything with us had been so versatile that I doubted anyone could ever
connect that close with me again. Random thoughts of suicide jumped through
my head, though I hastily pushed them out. I could not do it to myself
because I was simply not courageous enough.
As I wandered back into the living room, I passed the window, the spot not
a foot from it where the large stain would never come out, and to the door.
One last look around, my throat tightening, I leaned against the doorframe
and wished Daniel goodbye.
“I love you Daniel, and I miss you. Maybe someday we’ll meet again.”
They were actually spoken, even if in a whisper, and the words seemed
alien. Was that really me, and if so, did I really believe what I was
saying? Would we ever see each other again? Would I grow to forget him as
he would for me in the afterlife?
Closing the door softly, I headed past the piles of stuffed animals, poems,
cards, and roses.
I had lyrics to write.
01.18.00
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