A Parting Shot

It was a glancing blow. Something Anna couldn’t accept. While she felt some psychic damage, she knew it was not mortal. It was not serious. She was still alive; it was her friend that had died.

She paced her apartment. Just months before she was worried about herself just as much as others. But the city was secure now. A missile hadn’t fallen in weeks. Anna still wouldn’t leave the house. Her phone, like a small newborn pup, was cradled from couch to bed to toilet to couch and back to bed all day and night long in an anxious, clammy embrace.

The text came with no warning—a message from Alexi’s mother.

We heard he was killed at the camp. Call us.

Anna would not call. Not for a long time. She would pace. It was only a matter of time before she felt this way. Whether it was Alexi, or her brother, or father, or anybody she knew. Pacing was the only way to stay above water.

She spent most of the day on the kitchen tiles. Her feet carried her across space to the bathroom. As she sat on the toilet, her heart rate quickened. She reached for toilet paper frantically. Flushed. Back to pacing.

She couldn’t allow the wound to dig any deeper. She needed to remain structurally sound. She would have to call Alexi’s mother. She would need to leave this space, wear black, and hug her for hours.

The last day they saw each other was grey. They had dinner. They slept together in the afternoon. They were too sad to cry as if that would acknowledge some melodramatic performance. So they lay next to each other, staring, burning the image of the other’s iris into memory.

Alexi was strong. His back was thick. Anna traced the ridge lines and valleys in her mind. He was there, smiling, forever in her mind. And then he was in a casket.

It was Alexi that died. An end to a friendship, a strange goodbye. A set of hazelnut eyes, rippling with cosmic radiance, glued to her face. Forever.