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Connor opened his eyes. Why was he still here? He thought that he was supposed to be gone! Had he failed? Was he still alive? He looked down at his hands, feeling bummed that he hadn’t succeeded.
Wait. His hands were… almost transparent looking. His body kind of faded out past his knees, and when he looked around, he saw where he was.
There was a picture of him on a table in front of a long, sleek black box. An array of flowers lay on top of the casket, and when he looked around, he saw the end of a funeral. His funeral. A few people lingered, slowly dispersing. Someone came up to the casket, face somber as he rests a hand on it.
Connor saw Schlatt’s face turning red, his eyes watering as he rested his hand on the casket, turning his head away from it slightly as he squeezed his eyes shut, and the tears slipped down his face. Connor frowned. Why was he crying? He was Schlatt, the Big Guy, he never cried! He wasn’t supposed to cry, not over him. Connor found his own face heating up with tears as he watched his friend, his best friend, try and keep himself together. Not once had Connor ever seen Schlatt cry in all the years they’d known each other. Not once. He was the poster child of nonchalance, a picturesque example of aloof, he wasn’t supposed to cry! Connor wasn’t worth the tears.
Schlatt wiped his eyes on his sleeve, turning away from the casket. Connor followed him.
He followed him through the cemetery he was to be buried in. He followed him to his car. When they parked on their driveway, he followed him inside to their shared house. Well, not shared anymore. He watched as his friend practically collapsed against his wall, no longer trying to hide the tears from the people at the funeral. No one was around, he didn’t have anyone to hide from anymore.
Sobs wracked his friend’s body as he curled around himself, burying his face in his arm. It killed Connor to see him like this, made him wish that he was still around to comfort him. But no. No comfort for J. Schlatt.
This went on for days. Connor hadn’t been expecting anyone to miss him, least of all to this degree. It was painful to watch. Schlatt had been tearing himself up ever since the funeral, he genuinely thought it was his fault that Connor had died, had killed himself. How Connor wished he could tell him otherwise.
Schlatt drank more, Connor noticed. He’d tried going sober, around eight or nine months before Connor died, and had been going strong, but apparently now that Connor was gone, that was a lost cause.
“I should have done more, Con, I’m so fucking sorry…” Schlatt said aloud one night. Connor floated over to him, tried to touch him, to hug him, console him, tell him everything would be alright, but all he did was make Schlatt cold, and cry more.
Three days in was when Schlatt started getting… violent. He was angry, but not with Connor. He still fully believed that it was his fault that Connor had killed himself, and wouldn’t let himself believe otherwise. It didn’t seem to be intentional, what Schlatt was doing, but he was still doing it.
He’d zone out sometimes, when he was trying to eat or drink something, his eyes would wander to Connor’s closed door, his hand would wrap around the nearest sharp object, and when the man zoned back in, there would be blood on the knives, on the counter, on the floors.
He’d stopped eating, or at least he never ate enough, didn’t eat regularly.
The nights were the worst. Schlatt had always had a problem falling asleep, but it wasn’t like this . Now he curls in on himself, cries himself to sleep because he didn’t do more to help Connor while he still could.
Connor wished he’d stayed alive, if only so he wouldn’t have to watch his friend slowly kill himself over him.
Schlatt was recording again, two weeks later. The Chuckle Sandwich podcast. He’d taken a bit of a break, they all had, after Connor died, but now they were back.
They got done recording, and turned off their cameras, but stayed on the call.
“I think this is gonna be my last podcast, guys,” Schlatt said, when there was a lull in conversation.
“What? Why?” Charlie asked.
“I think I just wanna… do something different. Try something new.”
“That’s understandable, I guess. You sure?”
“Yeah. Sorry again.”
“It’s okay. Um. Schlatt, really quick, are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”
“Nothing, it’s just… we both know you were really close with Connor, and… well… we’re worried.”
“Well, I‘m fine.”
“That’s a lie,” Ted muttered.
“Oh, shut the fuck up, what do you think you are, a human lie detector? You don’t know shit,” Schlatt snapped.
“Schlatt. It’s okay. We’re just trying to make sure you are.”
“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”
“Okay. Well, if you ever need help, let us know.”
“Thanks.” He left the call. “I won’t.”
He turned his computer off, and slumped in his chair. He let out a deep, shaky breath, and got up, heading into the kitchen. He began pulling things out, making some pasta. When it was ready, he got out a bowl- two bowls. Connor’s shoulders dropped. “Schlatt…” he sighed.
The New Yorker continued setting places for two at the table, and then fixed two bowls of pasta, sitting down at the table.
“Hey, Connor! Dinner’s ready! I made some pasta!” he shouted at Connor’s door. Connor watched, helpless, as the hope of normalcy faded from Schlatt’s eyes slowly, as he got up and knocked on Connor’s door, calling his name. “Connor? You alright?” he pushed the door open, the first time that his door has been open since Schlatt closed it that day he’d died. Killed himself. In that room. Schlatt opened the door, took one look around, then realization hit him like a truck. Connor saw any hope dash from his eyes and leave that cursed room entirely. As if in a trance, Schlatt walked further into the room. He walked around where Connor’s body had been, then over to the desk, where a piece of paper lay on the desk. His note. Connor’s heart dropped into his stomach. Schlatt sat down on his bed and started reading it, tears gathering and falling unhindered by Schlatt, dripping onto the paper below. He finished reading it, his head lowered and his shoulders shaking slightly, the only light that of the kitchen down the hall.
Connor wished so badly he’d stayed in the land of the living. Maybe Schlatt wouldn’t be so alone then. But he’d made his choice, and no matter how much he regretted it, he couldn’t go back.
Schlatt left his room, closing the door behind him, then leaned against the door, sliding down to the floor. His head fell back against the door, and he let out a shaky breath.
“Why’d you have to go?” His voice was thick, quiet. He closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing, to stop crying, but it wasn’t all that effective. “You knew I was no good alone, so why’d you go? Did I not do enough? Am I the reason you’re gone? I should have done more, I’m sorry…”
“Schlatt… no… it’s not your fault, it’s mine…” Connor said, nearer to his mourning friend, even though he couldn't hear him. He tried to touch his face, but his hands went right through. Schlatt shivered.
Eventually, he got up and walked over to his desk, where he opened a drawer and pulled something out. Connor couldn’t see it yet, his back was to him. His left shoulder moved like he was bringing something to his head. He began floating to better see what it was, when suddenly, with a tense in Schlatt’s arm, there was was a bang, and Schlatt’s body dropped to the ground, lifeless.
Connor hovered right beside his body, crying. He wishes that he’d made himself live, instead of this. He just… he didn’t think anyone would miss him that much.
But staring into the eyes of his lifeless friend, as his blood spilled onto the floor, he knew he’d thought wrong.
“ Connor ?”