A Still Moment In Time

Wade doesn’t remember much. He remembers carrying Peter’s limp lifeless body in his arms and laying it on the bed they shared just the night before. He remembers wetness staining his cheeks, not sure whether it was tears or blood. He remembers stroking Peter’s hair as he murmured futile pleas into Peter’s deaf ears. He remembers how cold Peter’s mouth was as he kissed them.

Then nothing.

Wade doesn’t know how long he was out; it could have been minutes as well as hours. But now he knows Peter is dead. Now he knows he was the one who killed him. He knows it’s useless to hold his body pressed to close his and kiss his hair. He knows there is no point in talking to Peter. He knows Peter won’t answer him. Now he knows. He knows.

And yet.

Wade wraps his arms around Peter’s middle, rearranging them on the bed as comfortably as even possible with a dead body. Corpse. Wade doesn’t see corpse when he looks at Peter’s face. Not yet. He still sees Peter – asleep, peaceful, beautiful. He touches Peter’s nose, chin, eyebrows. He smooths out the nonexistent frown on Peter’s forehead, already missing its usual presence.  He prods at the left corner of Peter’s lips, where his smile used to form before spreading further, all the way up to the eyes.

Peter still feels warm. And Wade feels sick.

It’s like a haze. A still moment in time where seconds are minutes are hours are days. Everything is motionless. But with each passing moment Peter’s body turns colder and harder. More distant. Too out of reach. And it doesn’t make sense.

Wade keeps talking. He tells Peter everything that comes to his mind. He tells him how freezing the cold December air is because he didn’t close the window to keep the room as cold as possible. He tells Peter he’s hungry and that he wishes they had a TV set in the bedroom. He tells him he loves him. He doesn’t tell him he misses him. He still has Peter right here in his arms after all.

At some point – hard to tell exactly when if you lost track of time – Wade untangles himself  from Peter’s stiff limbs, grabs a half-bad orange juice from the fridge and half-empty box of Pop Tarts from the cabinet. They don’t need more than halves now, do they? He rests his head on Peter’s chest, where he can’t feel a heartbeat anymore. It’s too still and too quiet to bare. But the telephone keeps ringing, and the answering machine keeps flooding the flat with indistinguishable voices.

When he runs out of stories to tell he’s ready to break something. It’s aggravating, that there is no one to stop him from talking now. He shoves at Peter’s arm, but there is no reaction. It only makes Wade shove harder. He remembers that one time when Peter used Wade’s own stinking sock to shut him up. Those were good times. Wade sighs deeply and it hurts. It hurts very much to breathe, when Peter can’t. When Wade had sucked the last breath out of him. Breathing feels like a profanation now.

Wade starts humming, softly, soothingly, a lullaby. Not for Peter, no. Wade wants to sleep too.

Peter, it’s Robbie. Are you there? Pick up if you’re there. Peter. I guess you’re not there. Listen man, we can’t reach your cell phone either. . You better come by tomorrow morning. Jonah is hell-bent on having you fired. This time for real. For life.

Wade never met Robbie Robertson, but he sounds like a swell enough guy. He will probably miss Peter. Peter neither confirms nor denies. He tells Peter he’s starting to smell and oh how the tables have turned. He forgets to laugh at his own joke. He may have forgotten how to laugh at all. They’ve run out of Pop Tarts. There is still beer in the fridge, and he found a month old taco under the couch when he went to the bathroom last time. He tells Peter that now he’s not so sure if the smell was from Peter after all. Again, neither of them laughs. It’s not that funny anyway.

Wade looks at Peter, studies this almost unfamiliar face, closed off and pale. It’s completely different now, the color of Peter’s skin, the feel of it, the smell of it. But the memory is still fresh enough. It’ll do – Wade has a vivid imagination. He asks Peter if he minds that Wade prefers his alive self. He takes Peter’s silence as a no and kisses Peter’s temple. It tastes vile on his lips. He places another kiss there.

Hello, Peter? It’s your aunt. You listen to me now, young man. You were supposed to be here for dinner. Care to explain why aren’t you? And why you’re not calling? At all? Pick up, Peter, I promise I’m not mad. Just tell me what’s going on. Peter? Are you there? I swear I never know anymore what is going on in your life, boy. Call me as soon as you can.

Aunt May. Sweet, lovely Aunt May. Wade clicks his tongue and shakes his head. Tells Peter that’s no way to treat a lady like May. Peter should be ashamed. But Peter is silent, like he doesn’t care at all. He just lays there, looking like anyone but himself, silent like he never were and just lets Aunt May worry about him. Wade grabs his arms, suddenly angry, and shakes him as hard as he can. He yells. He want’s Peter to open his eyes. He wants Peter to be alive.

He drops Peter on the bed and sees his own fists fall down Peter’s shoulders and chest. He punches with all he has – he wants to pound life back into Peter just like Peter used to want to pound some decency into Wade. When his hands are numb, he slumps on Peter’s body and sobs. It feels like he hadn’t cried in years. He hugs Peter and lets himself go. He cries until his eyes are dry. He screams until his throat is sore. He trembles until he falls asleep.

Oh…

He doesn’t go back to bed. He sits under the window, pulls his knees to his chin, watches Peter. No, it’s not Peter. It’s a corpse. A corpse like hundreds before it – slain by Wade’s hand. There’s no Peter anymore. Wade killed Peter. Wade loved Peter and then he killed him. He didn’t mean to. He loved him. He didn’t want him dead. He wanted him alive and in his arms. How did this happen? What is Wade even doing?

He lets his head fall back against the wall. He rubs his eyes with his fists, because they sting. He tries to breathe, but the smell is unbearable, even so close to the window. He snickers, and he feels dirty. He apologizes. Peter doesn’t react, because there is no Peter.

He misses Peter.

Wade doesn’t know how long he sits there. He doesn’t notice when it gets dark. The noise from the street is almost inaudible to his ears. He can only hear his own ragged breath, his own frantic heartbeat, his own voices telling him he fucked up.

Something feels off. Something is missing. Something that was there not so long ago. Something that made Wade not miss Peter before. Something that made Peter there. But Wade didn’t do anything. He was stuck in a moment in time, he was motionless, nothing changed.

The phone.

Wade scrambles to get up and reconnect the phone and the answering machine. Wade didn’t even notice that before each message from whoever the fuck, there was something. Something that stopped Wade from… realizing. He presses the button.

I’m not here. Leave the message after the beep.

Peter’s voice. Before, Wade heard but didn’t listen. Now that he couldn’t hear, he starts to listen. Peter’s voice. Peter’s voice telling him Peter is not here. Peter isn’t here. Leave the message after the beep. Peter is not here. Wade made Peter not here. Wade killed Peter. There is no Peter. He can let go. He can go. There’s nothing left. He can let go.

Peter is not here.

Wade presses the button again.