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It started off as fleeting glances. Making his eyes over a large crowd and for maybe a second he would see bright golden eyes staring back at him, orange streak bobbing toward him. Then Locus would focus his attention on that spot and wait. Wait for Felix to bounce up in front of him and berate him for leaving.
He never did.
He came to fear large crowds.
Came to fear seeing not-real Felix behind a gentleman on his phone. Felix always disappeared when Locus tried to seek him out. This was true even when he was alive.
For awhile, Locus went insane. He stayed up for weeks at a time, getting mere seconds of sleep when he drifted off in front of his whiskey bottle. He drank to remind himself that Felix is dead. Gone. Died when he fell off that cliff. That Felix didn’t just fake his death to torment him for not doing what he should have done. Sticking by the scared man’s side.
He slowly became himself. It took weeks, months. Many months, to realize that yes, Felix is gone and he’s just seeing things. His mind is tricking him into thinking he’s still alive.
Then, there came the times when Locus was finally brave enough to face a crowd of people without fear of seeing the familiar smirking eyes widen. Except he did see them. And even when Locus stared back at them, they remained real. Didn’t dissipate into smoke, and didn’t vanish when he did a double take.
Locus kept walking when he saw those eyes. Never looked back.
They were never real anyway.
That’s what he tells himself when he opens the newly bought whiskey and pours himself a drink. Four months of soberness down the drain. Felix never was much help with his problem. Even when he was actually alive.
Locus didn’t think about raising the glass to his lips and drinking, but there it was.
He never killed anyone after he watched Felix fall. He saw his face in everyone’s dead eyes. He chose what was supposed to be his last job, killing a business partner for some hotshot CEO on earth. He held a gun between the marked man’s eyes and all he could see was Felix staring back at him.
He dropped his gun and let the target get away.
He paid for someone to take him off the grid, bought a house on an unknown planet, put Felix’s old things in the attic and pretended he was fine. Pretended he didn’t miss the uppity charismatic liar. Pretended he stopped seeing fiery eyes in the crowd weeks ago. Pretended he didn’t feel phantom bony fingers on his shoulder when he was unsure of something.
And for awhile, he learned that if you faked something enough, it became real.
Until the auditory hallucinations started.
Locus never liked calling it hallucinations but he knew that’s exactly what they were. There was no other reason for seeing and feeling Felix in crowded streets or rooms. But this was so much worse, hearing Felix and not knowing where it came from. It started when he knocked down his glass full of alcohol.
“Wow, good job there Locs.” Locus stilled. His heart was beginning to race. His breath leaving him. His chest was collapsing in on his lungs.
“Don’t be so dramatic. It’s just a panic attack. Get over it.” The hallucination said. Locus finally looked up, looked around, looked everywhere. He had to be here. He had to be alive.
“Locs. Stop looking. I’m dead, ‘member? You gotta. You caused it.” The whiskey bottle shattered against the wall and the voice stopped. He was on his toes for the rest of the night. He thought he heard the fridge opening at three in the morning, and he had another panic attack. He heard a cat meow outside his window, and he had a panic attack. He thought he heard Felix laughing, and he screamed into his pillow.
He broke at 5 AM, when the phantom fingers were back on his shoulder, taunting him. Locus sat up and clapped until the lights turned on. (“When we got off of Chorus and we get a mansion that blocks out the sun, we’re getting clapper lights. We have to.” He remembers Felix talking about their future house on their private comms channel. He never fully realized Felix had always included Locus when he thought of his future. Always used ‘we’ instead of self obsessed ‘I’.) (What a joke.)
Hallucination Felix voiced his affinity for the lights and Locus immediately turned them off and ignored Felix. He did it when the other was alive, how different could it be when he is dead?
“How rude.” Locus didn’t hear the voice for the whole day after that. He cautiously went about his day in fear of hearing it. Getting groceries, he expected a comment on his choice of oranges. During his therapy appointment, he expected a comment on how he never brought up the hallucinations.
He doesn’t hear anything that isn’t actually there for three days. Three days of living on the verge of fear that at some point he was going to mess something up and he would hear a scoff or a snort at his idiocy from dead Felix.
“If you really don’t want to hear me, why don’t you just tell a psychiatrist you’re seeing dead people and take some meds to make me go away for a second time? That sounds fun, right?” The words hurt like a knife, like Felix’s knife. (With its fancy engravings, his name etched onto the bottom of the handle, dipped in whatever poison he fancied that week.)
Even Locus’ conscience wanted to make him feel guilty for what he did.
Locus doesn’t respond, doesn’t give anything away that he can hear Felix’s voice. Maybe if he pretends enough, he’ll stop tormenting him and go away. Locus continues making his coffee even if Felix is still rambling in his ear about how Locus betrayed him and killed him.
“If you really didn’t want to be my partner in crime anymore, you could have just said so. Could’ve been something like, “Oh hey Felix, by the way, I’m not alright with this partnership anymore, so let’s split ways, yeah? You can continue living instead of dying at 26 and can continue making a living.”
Locus stared at the sludge making its way down the mug and into his mouth, Felix’s words echoing inside his brain. Felix was 26. 26 years out of 80 that he could have lived. Locus had cut his life short, there was still things he had wanted to do, he told Locus about his bucket list every month.
He never got to see a giraffe, he never got to dye his hair grey, he never got to become a politician (“It could happen Locus, I’m a lying, charismatic, attractive guy. Who wouldn’t vote for me?”)
Locus dropped his mug onto the floor, let it slip through his fingers. Just like Felix.
“Hey Lo. You dropped something. Anyway, as I was saying before. Was it really necessary to embarrass me in front of the reds and blues? I mean, really, let’s be serious here. I know that’s a difficult task for you, but just try for me. You could’ve killed them first, and then killed me. I don’t appreciate being embarrassed, Locus.”
The panic set in, heart speeding up along with his breath. He could have done something different. He should have done something different. It could have ended better. He wouldn’t be here if he made the right choice. He made a mistake, he shouldn’t have killed Felix. The glass at his feet kept Locus from being able to sit down through his panic attack. So, there he stood. Leaning against the kitchen counter as a hallucination talked his ear off, all while his lungs collapsed. His heart mimicked that of the heartbeat he felt when he stood in front of Felix. He was taken back to that moment, the moment of seeing Felix blown off the tower.
When his panic attack ended, 30 minutes later, Locus grabbed the broom and swept away the broken mug.
“Remember when I would break plates because I was angry at you? All you said was for me to wear socks and shoes when I did that. How thoughtful of you. I hope you get glass in your foot.
Locus immediately put shoes on. There was laughter right next to his ear as he did so.
When he went to therapy, the hallucinations went quiet. Locus suspected it was because Felix was studying him during those times. Even a hallucination would try to manipulate him. He never brought it up with his therapist, never gay away anything that would suggest that anything was wrong with him, other than PTSD. (“That’s normal for a soldier. How long did you say you toured?” To which Locus replied with “Too long.” and “Not long enough.” in the same sentence.)
He stopped going to therapy after he felt fingers on his shoulder and Felix telling him that he didn’t like that therapist. He told himself that he wasn’t listening to Felix. Felix was dead and he’s doing this because he didn’t like the therapist either.
He started drinking again after Felix said he forgot what it was like to be drunk.
He killed someone after Felix said that he was angry.
Every time those phantom fingers made their way to his shoulder, Locus would tell himself that he’s doing this because he wants to. He’s going into the attic to look through Felix’s old boxes because he wants to.
“I’m doing this for me.” He would repeat until his voice was raw. Until he felt fingers that weren’t his in his hair. Until he almost lost his voice. Until Felix’s voice was clearer. Until he could see Felix leaning against the wall, smirk on his face and hair looking perfect as always.
“I’m doing this for me.”
Felix twirled a knife in his hands.
“I’m doing this for me.”
Felix scoffed.
“I’m doing this for me.”
“Why am I here, Locus. To remind you of your mistakes? To haunt you? Pfft. No. I’m here because you can’t survive without me. I’m here because your brain needs to make up something that’s not really there for you to continue living your life. Feel crazy yet?” Felix stuck his knife into the wall closest to him, and then slinked his way to Locus.
When Locus fell to his knees, Felix followed (But of course he kept his head held high, gaining height where he could.)
“I’m here, because you are never going to get rid of me, Locus.”
With that, the physical touch of Felix was gone.
Locus couldn’t help but wish he was the one who fell off the tower.