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Sing To Me

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To you, there are three types of pain.

Physical pain. Cuts. Gashes. Bruises. Scars.

Mental pain. Yelling. Insults. Arguing.

And Emotional pain. Sadness. Hurt. Depression.

You’ve experienced all of these. Some more than others. You’ve inflicted quite a few of them as well. But that’s a whole other story.

You put the now empty container back in the medicine cabinet. You no longer have a need for it. You look at the corner under the mirror. There’s a knife that and you sneer at it in disgust as you drop it into a drawer. You wash your hands off as the red-tinted water swirls down the drain. It repulsed you, so you looked away.

You dry your hands quickly and walked out of the bathroom, into your bedroom, and out your bedroom door.

You eye the door across from your own and debate whether to knock on it or not. But it would be better if you did. You knock quietly, timidly.

The door opens quickly and you jump a bit in surprise. The person looks down at you and asked if you needed help with something. But he asks kindly, so kindly.

You fidget, quite obviously nervous and he calls your name once, twice, three times, until you hear him. You look up and say that you can’t sleep. He asks how he can help, and you tell him that you would very much like it if he would sing to you.

He looks at you warily and tells you that it might not be such a good idea, considering… He trailed off. But you understood. And it sent another pang through your heart, reminding you that you need this to happen. So you tell him that it has nothing to do with any of that. He stares at you for what seems like ages before he conceded and you led him into your bedroom.

He sat at the chair next to your bed as you stumbled in. You grip the side table to regain your balance. He asks if you were okay and you tell him not to worry. But he always worries. Not that it meant anything of course. Another pang.

You fall into bed and pull the covers up to your shoulders and just leave them there. He looks at you again. It’s always that same look. Worry. Care. And, worst of all, pity. You didn’t want his pity. He had always worried that you would try something. But it was too late, you already had.

You smile at him sadly, letting all of your pain show on your face. Might as well now, when it matters most. He looked guilty. He didn’t need to be guilty. He shouldn’t. He should always smile. Always. You move your hand to his face and he jerked back. Pang. You waited until he moved his face back to pull his lips into a smile.

He caught on quickly and grinned widely. He looked so much better like that. You hoped that that smile would never leave his face. He told you that you would start now. And you nodded.

You let his voice wash over you. It drowned out all of the pain. And you deluded yourself into thinking that he was singing to you for a complete other reason. And it helped that he chose your favorite song.

You looked over at him. He looked so serene when he was singing. You let the image imprint in your mind. Then you grabbed his hand. He stumbled over a few notes and looked at you. You told him it was okay.

He noticed how your words broke in the middle and frowned sadly before starting again.

You looked at your intertwined hands It felt nice. Such a shame.

Your eyes glazed over and you felt that you were starting to lose yourself. You shook your head slightly. A few more minutes. Please.

He noticed your grip becoming lax and dazed expression. He asked if you were sick and you told him to keep singing.

He told you that, if you were sick, then he wanted to get you some help. You said quietly that you were far beyond help at the moment.

He got up quickly and grabbed the sides of your head, moving it from side to side, inspecting your eyes. Desperately trying to find an answer that wouldn’t be there.

You grabbed the hands gripping your face and stopped them.

You whispered that, it’ll all be okay. It’ll all be okay now. Because you had fixed it. And it will all be okay. Your voice wavered, so weak.

He asked what you meant and you told him to please, finish the song. So he sat at the side of your bed and sang to you. He gripped your hand with both of his, but you were unable to hold them back. You were almost gone now.

You wished that you had more time. But this was for the best. You knew that. It would all be over. And he could live the life that he wanted. And all you wanted was for him to be happy. His smile was breathtaking, and he should share it with everyone.

You smiled at him, one last time, and whispered that everything was okay. And you told him that you had always loved him and wanted him to be happy. You noticed he was crying, why should he cry? He should never be sad. He smiled through his tears as you drifted off, concentrating on his pulse that you could feel through his hands that were gripping yours so tightly.

Because it was over now.

And that was for the better.