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“Tyrell Wellick was one of the most ambitious, inspired, courageous men I’ve ever met,” the EvilCorp executive says, his face solemn. “He was not just an executive, but an American hero. His death just days before he was to be made CEO was one of the greatest tragedies of - ”
I tune it out. It’s all lies, anyway. You weren’t a hero; you were a murderer. And you weren’t inspired - you were just afraid.
I wonder if you would have liked the funeral they throw for you. The top 1% of the 1%, all turning out in their finest to pretend to honor your life. A giant pageant in your honor. You always liked attention, didn’t you? Would you get a kick out of seeing all of these powerful men call you EvilCorp’s rising star?
Or would you be as disgusted as I am? Watching all of these rich bastards pretend to mourn the shitty life you always pretended you had? The life you finally regretted when it was too late to turn back?
I wish they could have seen you, the way you were at the end. I know you would have hated it - but - someone else should remember you. The way you really were. You wasted your whole life pretending. If all anyone remembers is the mask - it’s like you never really existed at all.
I hate that thought. I cross my arms tightly around myself, trying to hold it together. Am I really struggling not to cry over you? I never even fucking liked you in the first place. You don’t deserve it, anyway - I can’t lose sight of that. There’s something sick about it, me being here, turning out to mourn you, when I don’t even know the names of half the people you killed. Why does the life of one fucking capitalist murderer matter more to me than all the innocent people who died in the bombings you masterminded? That’s the treachery of perspective. One death is a tragedy, a million deaths is a statistic. You don’t deserve how much this hurts me, but that doesn’t make the pain go away.
I wish I hadn’t let you walk away. I wish I’d stayed with you. It wouldn’t’ve made any difference, but - you wouldn’t’ve been alone. Maybe you deserved that much.
I wait until the rest of the “mourners” trickle out. Technically, I’m not even supposed to be here. I faked an invitation in the name of Sam Sepiol . . . I think you’d’ve appreciated the humor. I think part of you liked getting to be the little guy, getting to be the one upsetting the whole fucked-up system.
Finally, I’m the last person sitting alone in the graveyard. I want to leave, but I can’t bring myself to. I can’t shake the feeling that I have unfinished business with you. And someone should mourn you. The mask had its funeral - the real you should get a turn now.
I walk over to the grave, and crouch down.
“I’m - not good at words,” I start, and then stop, and laugh. “You knew that. Everyone knows that, I guess . . . But I wanted to say something. Some kind of - of eulogy - because no one else is gonna do it.” Sometimes, I think that’s my fault. I didn’t ask for any of this. But if it wasn’t for me, you would still be alive, and maybe your wife would be too. Maybe you’d still be the perfect couple together, cutting a blood-stained path to the top of the ladder behind your perfect masks.
I don’t really believe that. I’m not that self-hating. You made your own mistakes; I won’t take the blame for that.
“When I was in prison,” I say, eventually, “I kept dreaming of you. Sometimes you were - hunting me down, killing me, hurting me - whatever. But other times, you were - we were - You and me, we were friends. Just - hanging out. Eating dinner, or chatting or - I don’t know.” I look away from your gravestone. Like I still can’t bear to meet your eyes, even though you’re fucking dead. “Is that what you wanted?” Did you ever actually want to know the real me? Or did you just want to own the version of me you built up in your head? “I don’t know.”
I never will, now. I squeeze my eyes shut against tears. This is stupid, this is stupid. I didn’t even like you. But I hate that. I hate that I never really knew you and now I never will, and it’s not even about you, not really. It’s about everyone I missed, drifting by in my life and shutting everyone out of my cold, perfect maze. Tyrell. Mobley. Trenton. Angela. Shayla.
“Sometimes I wonder,” I say, quietly, “What’s the point in - what’s the point in being here. If I - what’s the point in saving the world if I’m still alone?” I wrap my arms around myself. “Elliot should be the one living this. I was supposed to save the world, and I did, so what’s the point of me?” I laugh, low and bitter. “I guess you always thought I was Elliot . . . I did too. I guess . . . guess I was more like you than I ever knew. Just another guy playing God without permission . . . I - I wanted - ” I cut myself off, trying to find the words.
“I wanted to build a world where we wouldn’t’ve had to be so afraid,” I say, finally. “Either of us. That’s where I was keeping Elliot. A stupid fucking fairytale where we were friends and I was happy and you weren’t such a fucking psychopath.” I sweep my hoodie back from my head and dig my fingers into my hair. “Maybe I’m just as bad as you. Maybe I wanted the version of you I built up in my head too.”
I kneel down, closer to the gravestone, as if that’s going to bring me closer to some facsimile of human connection.
“I wish you were here,” I whisper. “I don’t fucking know why. I just do.” I wish I hadn’t missed you. I wish you’d ever bothered to talk to me like a fucking human being. I wish I wasn’t so lonely. “Maybe the real Elliot would’ve loved you like you wanted me to. Maybe I’m just broken.”
I don’t believe that. I’m rebuilding my life, now. Holding tight to the people I still have. Making up for lost time.
“I don’t believe that,” I say, more to myself than to you. “I’m not going to fade away again. I’m not going to throw away my second chance.” I shut my eyes, and shake my head. I keep wondering: if you had lived, would you be here with me? You didn’t deserve a second chance . . . but maybe neither did I.
“Like I said,” I whisper. “Sometimes I think you’re the only one I know who actually likes me . . . me, not - not Elliot.” You never met Elliot. I don’t think you’d have liked him. “So I wanted . . . I wanted to say goodbye.”
It doesn’t seem like enough. Nothing I could say would be enough. And as I look around the smooth green grass of the upper-class cemetery where you’re buried, I begin to hate it. You spent your whole life trapping yourself in places like this, manicured, restrained, fake. When I think of you lying under the ground here, in your fucking overpriced coffin - I hate it.
I leave the cemetery. About ten minutes later, I return, one hand in my backpack, concealing what I bought. I crouch down by your grave, and look over my shoulder to make certain no one is watching me. The cemetery is empty, identical graves on featureless waves of green grass.
I pull out the spray paint can, shake it, and tag your grave with three words in bright red paint:
HE WAS HUMAN
It’ll probably be a minor scandal on the news tomorrow, someone vandalizing the grave of American hero Tyrell Wellick. They’ll say it was disrespectful. It doesn’t matter.
I think you would’ve understood what I meant.