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Pico watches Luis prattle about his beautiful wife and angelic daughter.
Watches, never listens.
He lets the words soak his skin, the delivery caresses his ears.
He lets Luis be himself, when no one would let him.
There’s something off about his relationship with the local prison guard.
Sure, they’re friends. Sure, they’re each other’s poorly equipped therapists.
And sure, one of them is married.
But it’s the thought that counts, Pico supposes.
Luis kicks a pebble into marble.
Fumbling.
His words carry weight now.
“Remember when you told me that you felt alone?”
Luis asked, his arms crossed over his chest.
...
Pico remembers quite clearly.
Never claims to, though.
But now that he’s alone, he has no choice but to.
“How you kept your defense mechanism? How you scared Lillian for days?”
...
Huh. That’s new.
Pico lets out a nasal sound.
“Yeah, you’d snort if you heard me.”
Damn it.
“When you told me you felt alone, I didn’t feel like I could... get it. I knew at that moment that I wouldn’t be able to help you and care for you.”
Luis sighs.
“I don’t like expressing my thoughts. Especially not to you.
But you deserve some peace, even if you’re long gone.”
Deserve, huh?
Pico smirks, looking down at Luis who now wears a looser version of his uniform.
Damn old man.
“You’re too smart for your own good, kid.”
And with that, Luis leaves.
Not before leaving behind something –
a single damp cloth, with Pico’s name written in the corner.
Pico smiles.
The old man, really.
Pico looks at himself once again.
Blood stains his stupid green long-sleeve.
Its vibrance is gone, covered by muted reds and greens.
Keith’s bangle is loose on him now. It still shines bright.
The next to arrive and stop before marble is Lillian.
She isn’t dressed in that dress anymore.
She dons something more graveyard friendly.
She sets down a bouquet in front of his name.
Lillian smiles, pretty as ever.
“It’s been a while, Pico.”
Pico waves.
Habits die hard.
“I know you used to talk about the forms we’d take on in the afterlife. I hope you’re doing well as a gun wielding worm. You’d like it better, yes?”
Her voice is soft and riddled with sadness, despite her chuckling.
...
God decided to curse him with his human body, so slithering ‘round with an Uzi isn’t an action of choice.
“I miss you.
.. We all do. Those two, especially. They tend to switch, sleeping in your room. And I understand why, really.”
Her shoulders begin to tremble now, and so does the rest of her.
“... You felt alone, right? I couldn’t... imagine what you went through while you were locked in jail.”
Lillian’s fingers grip on the hem of her jacket.
“... I really wish you could’ve told us. I wish you could’ve told us... or.. me, or even Darnell and Nene. I still don’t want to know about its details but –“
She pauses, her voice breaking off.
“You could’ve told us how you were... feeling. All this time, we tried to make sure you were okay. We tried to make sure you were happy, Pico. We... we tried. And we failed. “
These aren’t the words Pico expected to hear.
Well, they aren’t... sugarcoating it, at least.
Words are better than nothing, he mumbles to himself.
“I remember praising you for how real your segment was. In the ... the jail.. act.
...remember being so... of you.
And... and I still am. I’m so, so proud of you for being so forgiving and opening yourself up to us, telling us about your struggles.”
She continues, tears falling down now.
“I’m... so proud of you, Pico. I... I just wish.”
Her words halt, folding into themselves.
She looks directly at the marble.
“I just wish you could’ve told us directly. I just wish, I just wish you could’ve told anyone, like... my father. Or my mother, or even one of us.”
Lillian’s next words are muffled.
Strange, and extremely scratchy.
It tickled Pico’s ears, but in a not-too-good way.
He smiles.
Well, at least someone’s proud of him.
Pico watches as Lillian leaves the graveyard, her bouquet set neatly beside the damp (dirty) cloth.
He watches as the days go by.
As everyone visits his grave in a pattern.
Darnell and Nene visit more often and don’t say anything.
They try to smile and crack jokes, reliving memories that would forever be incomplete.
Pico still loves them for that.
Pico remembers the way Darnell would scarf down anything that was homemade.
He remembers the way Darnell would bug him about buying the latest video game because it had fancy game mechanics (that totally wasn’t older mechanics but with better advertising.)
He remembers the way Nene would hug and reach for his arms and gain hugs or anything of the sort from both him and Darnell. It’s the Nene Rule, she calls it. Hugs.
If he could, he’d have flowers grow around them.
As thank you-s for keeping him company.
Luis and Sue visit often, then Lillian comes by mere minutes later.
Pico admires them for having the strength to.
The old couple became people he could look up to; sure, Luis is tough and sometimes unkempt, but he’s a good guy that just wants the absolute best for his wife and daughter.
Sure, Sue isn’t the most engaging in surface conversation, but she listens. She’s more patient and compassionate than anyone Pico’s had the pleasure of meeting.
And Lillian? Well, she’s certainly more a mixture of her parents. She’s full of surprised, and he’s fine with it. More than fine.
Keith visits the least, he notices.
But every time he does, there’s more and more things that spell out Pico, than Keith.
Every time he visits, Pico hears him say “I miss you” first.
It’s always an “I miss you”, never the cursory “Hey”.
There’s nothing else. Only an “I miss you”, a couple of paper hearts and cranes, then departure.
Then he’s alone for 24 hours.
Pico figures out the pattern quickly – Darnell and Nene visit on Sundays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays.
The Dearests (woah) visit on Mondays and Wednesdays, while Keith visits on Fridays alone.
And then Pico is stuck, his body light and transparent.
His body shivers despite not having the ability to feel hot and cold.
It’s a Sunday when Keith visits, wearing a jacket and a few golden objects in his hand.
Pico leans on the Cassandra statue, making sure to apply as much pressure as he can.
He watches as Keith sits in front of his grave, his blue hair no longer flattened by that stupid cap.
“Hey, Pico.
It’s been a while, right?”
Keith starts, his voice with no foundation.
“I’m sorry for not visiting.
l.. I didn’t know they had your name on stone.”
For a split second, Pico sees his blood on Keith’s face.
In that split second, there exists a throbbing pain in the side of his head.
He feels warmth flowing down, dripping from his chin, and he watches as Keith’s form stiffens – his eyes widen.
Keith clears his throat, his red and blue cap now turned 180 degrees (no longer backwards, huh?).
“Remember that dumb color swatch thing you did on Darnell’s back? We transferred it to canvas then framed it.”
Keith smiles, but it’s one filled with sadness.
“Every week, there’s always something wrong with it. The frame always has scratches no matter what we do to prevent it. Are you ashamed that you did that?”
Truth be told, Pico kind of is ashamed.
(Scratch it, he’s very much ashamed of it.)
“You don’t have to be. We treasure that painting, even if it’s all... that.
Even if the colors seem to fade a little day by day.”
With that, Keith leaves.
He doesn’t leave anything behind.
It’s the same pattern every week – Nene and Darnell pick on each other and their memories, then leave something that belongs to him behind.
The Dearests mumble some sappy, sentimental shit then leave little Miss Girlfriend alone to lament. They leave flowers.
Then Keith comes.
But there’s something strange enveloping the rapper’s cocky aura – something off.
He drops a bomb.
Or a few, doesn’t matter.
“When I think of you, my room flashes colors.
Or maybe that’s because... I painted the corners of my room in your colors.
Not sure..
I still remember the room where I found you. Bleeding, twitching.
When I look into the corner, I still see your blood spilling, spreading, dude.”
It doesn’t hurt, but when Pico’s hand slides up his temple, the blood flows.
What hurts more is what Keith drops next:
“I forgot what colors you like, or what gun you use.
I forgot your favorite flowers.”
It’s possible, he tries to convince himself.
It’s possible, because it’s certainly possible that he hasn’t visited either parties involved in his grave visiting.
No one would want to remember seeing someone die, after all.
“I don’t want to.”
And with that, Keith waves off, his hands tucked gingerly into his pockets.
Being forgotten doesn’t hurt, Pico thinks.
He surmises it’s like dipping your feet in a vat of acid – it burns.
(Never mind the fact that he’s never done it.)
But, well, he’s wrong once again.
He’s always wrong.
He knows that much.
For the first time since his suicide, Cassandra stands beside him.
A grin sits smugly on their stupid face, teeth rotting into itself.
Tar drips from their words and ammonia melts their eyes.
An amalgamation of everything he despises.
A grin sits smugly on their stupid face.
Reminding him that he shouldn’t have involved Keith in his death.
He shouldn’t have traumatized him.
Pico knows. He knows. He knows –
so then, why does he listen to Cassandra?
Why does he listen to the devil themselves?
Death is traumatic.
Being stuck in the same room as what pushed you over the edge is traumatic.
But, he interjects loosely –
it’s better than chastising. Than remembering.
And so it goes.
He watches Cassandra split themselves open in different ways, transforming into different people.
Getting him to open up isn’t easy, really.
But he feels his heart cracking when Cassandra changes into Keith.
He feels his hands twitch, and his eyes leak.
-
The next time he comes is when it’s a rainy day.
The colors of his umbrella are muted.
“Girlfriend says I keep a bunch of swatches that seem like your colors.”
He starts off, before setting down a small plate of food.
“When I look at them though, they don’t look like it. They’re rough and smudged. They’re weird. They aren’t like you, I think.”
He sighs.
“Girlfriend says they’re still the same colors.
...
But when I feel the paper, they don’t feel right.
It feels empty.”
His eyes are a little wide as he looks at Pico’s grave.
“What did I stick on to my walls...?”
His turn ends as the rain pours harder.
-
Darnell and Nene don’t visit you as often the next few weeks, an action mirrored by Lillian.
Her parents have started visiting every day.
They usually bring flowers.
Today, they don’t bring anything, except for Pico’s pocket knife.
He feels Cassandra’s arms wrap around him as he watches Luis.
“We’ve taken to accompanying Keith when he visits Darnell and Nene to observe his behavior. He asks about you, Pico.”
He can imagine it.
How his voice is full of life and curiosity as he asks how you’ve been.
Why he hasn’t come out in a while despite not being in jail?
It hurts what’s left of Pico’s heart.
“Darnell tries his best to stay strong, Pico. He really does. Nene, too. She tries to make sure Keith isn’t feeling bad often.”
Sue and Luis talk softly, their words still backed by emotion.
That same hour, Cassandra asks you about your whole dream involving the play.
-
Christmas, you think.
It’s a little colder up here.
Pico looks at the corner where Cassandra’s blood drips.
Despite their disappearance a few months back, their blood still drips as if it were fresh.
…
Keith stands before Pico’s grave, a small present in his hands.
He dons a red jacket with fur around the collar.
He looks down solemnly at Pico’s grave.
“To be honest, I came here because you seemed kinda lonely.
It must suck being the only one left, huh?
Well, um. I have to go.
Girlfriend says I can’t stay here any longer.
Take care, stranger. I hope your friends remember you.“