Archive of Our Own

Everyone else is gone.

Lee and Zoomer are deep in the heart of the snowy hills, trudging in the cold to an attainable freedom just out of reach.

Andy is likely answering police questions about the deaths that occurred on his property—but will he serve time? Can he? The lines are unclear; AI is at fault, but the hands and mind that constructed Ray belong to Andy. Why wouldn’t that make him an accomplice to murder?

As for the others, they’re on a flight back to their respective airports, making their way back to the safety and comfort of their homes. Darby is lucky enough to not join them, because Bill is still here, in the room he was killed in.

Not physically, no. His post-autopsy body makes its own journey, traveling back to his mother in Ohio. Poor lady… Darby’s heart breaks a fourth time, just for her. For a few moments longer, Darby needs to spend some much-needed time with Bill.

She’s abandoned her first love enough. With the murderer destroyed, Darby no longer worries about tainting whatever evidence remains in the room. A blood-stained rug, Bill’s personal belongings, the white, marble-ish fireplace—also tainted with Bill’s dried blood, and his bloodied copy of Darby’s book. The sight of the novel is almost too much for her to bear a second time.

Darby lies back on the bed. It’s cold, lifeless. Bill-less.

But she can feel him, his presence. Darby can’t leave again, not yet.

The dead talk to me. 

Her eyes shut. The silence surrounding her is deafening, not a single sound could cut through it with a knife. For a moment, the stillness of the atmosphere overwhelms Darby, engulfing her like waves crashing against a shore.

“So the dead really do talk to you, huh?”

What…?

Her breath hitches. Darby’s eyes snap open, and she shoots up from the bed in an instant. Soft blue eyes darting to the entrance find nothing. Darby’s still alone… but that comment wasn’t just a thought passing through her head. No, Darby heard that remark. Audibly. Maybe the stress and grief of the past few days—or has it been weeks?—are finally catching up to her. Auditory hallucinations aren’t uncommon to experience after going through extreme stress—right? Is that even true, or is that just another online lie Darby picked up from browsing Reddit too often?

Whatever.

Darby creeps toward the entrance. The door remains open, but no one stands in the hall. No one else occupies the rest of the empty space in this room. 

But she swears she heard someone.

Although she hesitates, Darby manages to choke out the question at the back of her throat.

“… What…?”

Not even a second ticks by before her question is met with a response.

“I said, so the dead really do talk to you, huh?”

The voice comes from behind her, breathed with apparent amusement. She turns back, this time, expecting to find someone, but alas, there is no one. A few raindrops of relief wash over her, but just as quickly as the sensation came, it evaporates.

Darby’s eyes flicker down to the floor beneath her feet. A soft gasp leaves her lips. Her eyes widen in shock. Darby swears she’s stopped breathing entirely.

Bill.

There, on the blood-stained rug. Exactly how Darby left him the night of his murder. Those large, deep blue eyes are unmistakable. Coupled with the dark tattoos on his arms and neck, there isn’t a doubt in Darby’s mind. William Farrah, in the flesh; the cold, pale flesh.

For a moment, she’s frozen, unable to move or speak. 

This can’t be real.

What feels like an hour passes before Darby can even begin to stumble over her words. Should she answer? Or should she respond with questions of her own?

“No…” Darby decides to answer with a sight shake of her head. She can’t tear her widened eyes from her ex-lover’s body. “… I meant that, like… figuratively. I told you, I don’t hear the dead literally—“

“Well, now you do.” An amused grin stretches across Bill’s face. Compared to the state of the rest of his body, the smile looks out of place—almost unsettling, as if someone or something else controls his mouth for him. “Either that, or I’m the special exception.”

Okay… that little quip brings a humored smile to Darby’s face, or rather, something reminiscent of one. She can feel the corners of her mouth pulling, but there’s not enough force to make much happen. How could she smile? This… isn’t funny. Disturbing, freaky, creepy, and downright unreal paint the picture with more accuracy. Darby breathes a slight huff. She can’t think of more words to say, what questions to ask.

The quiet settling between them is thick. Neither is fond of the silence, and the tension finally forces something out of Darby.

She doesn’t look away as she speaks. “Bill… how… do you feel…? Like… what is it like?”

“Being dead?” Bill snorts. “Like needing to crack your neck, but it just can’t happen. I feel like shit.”

“Can you get up?” Darby would offer her help, but frankly, she’s too afraid to touch him. If this isn’t real, Bill is merely an apparition that will vanish, and Darby doesn’t want him to leave a third time. 

Yes, she’s kept count.

If this is real… her hand will connect with his reanimated corpse. As much as she wants to hold him again, Darby doesn’t want to interact with his dead body a second time. It’ll hurt too much, it’ll be too real.

Bill can’t even shake his head. It seems he can’t move at all—as if this encounter couldn’t get any more unnerving, Bill doesn’t so much as blink.

“No… I think I’m stuck here.”

His words hurt. A deep pang of sympathy shoots through Darby’s chest. A look of pity crosses her face as she continues to gaze down at him, a slight sigh leaving her lungs. How awful…

The silence quickly returns, only interrupted when Darby kneels beside him. His blue eyes follow her figure. While Bill doesn’t mean to creep her out… he succeeds in disturbing her.

Exhaling a sharp breath, Darby extends her right hand toward Bill’s face. She just said she wouldn’t touch him—but Darby needs to make sure. Bill doesn’t ask questions; his eyes simply follow her movement once more. With reluctance, Darby’s palm rests on his left cheek.

It’s freezing cold. No, he’s definitely not alive… but the fact that Darby can touch him suggests he isn’t a mere hallucination, either. This is one hell of a dream…

Her hand rests there. If only Bill could take some of the warmth that radiates from her. She wouldn't mind him leeching from her body heat. While such a gesture wouldn’t be enough to make amends for everything that occurred between them, it’d be a pretty good start. For now, Darby pushes his head to the side with her left hand, toward her, so he can make eye contact more comfortably. No more unnecessary strain on his beautiful blue eyes. It’s the least she could do for him. 

How Bill still has eyes is beyond Darby. She worked in a morgue, she saw firsthand what happens to the eyeballs of the deceased a few days after they passed. For starters, it isn't pretty. But Bill is. Bill's soft gaze is.

“Thanks, Darby. Your hand’s soft. And warm.”

Yeah, the poor guy needs the heat. Unfortunately, Darby’s hand involuntarily retracts after only a few seconds. The icy chill of his white flesh begins to sting her palm. It’s as if she rested her hand in the snow sitting just beyond the sliding glass door in front of her.

“Do you… need something…?” Darby finally asks the hard question. Time to dive into the important conversations while they still have the time. Darby doesn’t know how long she has Bill—this time together is clearly borrowed.

Her eyes shift down to Bill’s chest. His torso doesn’t move in the slightest. Bill isn’t breathing, but that much is expected.

“Like unfinished business?” Bill muses. The smile leaves his lips, unnaturally dropping from his face. A pause, then an answer. “Yeah. This is me, putting on the glove and animating the fingers, I guess.”

Chills run down Darby’s spine. Despite the snowy conditions outside, the room itself is far too warm to allow such a sensation to pass through her body. Far too warm to let Bill stay so cold. 

His words strike her. Without a second to spare, Darby immediately remembers when she uttered them to Bill.

It’s like they compel me to get them what they want.

Those were her exact words. Spoken one of the various nights they video-called. Darby remembers well. Once again, fear floods her chest. Darby isn’t sure she believes in ghosts, but after this experience, she might have to reconsider her opinion. So many questions swim circles in her mind, and her thoughts are clouded.

Is this really Bill? Sure, it looks like him, down to the faint freckles dotting his the bridge of his perfect, slightly upturned nose. But could this be something—or someone—else? If not, does Bill hold resentment for her, for everything Darby did and failed to do? Darby isn’t sure she wants to mess or even interact with a vengeful spirit. She’s seen enough horror movies to know how such foolish decisions turn out. The hook cast out on an angry line is sharper than any other.

Yet, she bites.

“What do you want—”

Bill’s answer nips at the tail end of Darby’s question, almost interrupting her, as if he knew what she would say. “For you to change, Darby. It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted.”

Resentful? No. Bitter? Possibly. But the sadness dripping from Bill’s voice leads Darby to believe that Bill is out of sorts. Not angry, not vengeful—upset, sorrowful. Not because he’s dead, but because he wants Darby to change?

A scoff leaves Darby’s mouth. Offense taken.

Though she remains next to Bill’s body, sitting beside his outstretched figure on the rug, she scoots back once. The way her eyebrows knit together in clear irritation speaks enough volumes for Bill to elaborate. He’s never been one to hold back his various forms of self-expression, after all. From talking about feelings to creating brilliant, thought-provoking art, Bill excels where Darby falls behind. They were a perfect match. Bill ran the emotions department, and Darby, the thinking department—though not entirely. Bill was nowhere near dumb. It seems his corpse shares this trait.

“You’re too analytical,” he continues with a neutral tone. “And you can’t argue with me, ‘cause you know I’m right. I mean, yeah, it’s good to be that way in the morgue or—or when you’re looking at cases or whatever, but you can’t get yourself out of that headspace, Darby.”

It’s clear, his intentions are good, but Bill’s words still sting. 

“It’s like a broken switch for you, isn’t it?”

Each line that leaves his mouth feels like an arrow of criticism aimed right at her heart. Any other time, Darby would start putting up her walls. She’d cut Bill off, change the subject, or just sit in disinterested silence until Bill felt forced to switch topics himself. 

Now, however, is different. Bill evidently needs to get this out—it’s preventing his spirit from fully passing, or whatever. Bill needs this, and how could she deny a victim of murder the chance to relevasente? 

Darby’s expression softens. The harshness begins to disappear, and Bill carries on when Darby doesn’t respond.

“At first, I thought it was something you did on purpose.” Bill’s lips are chapped. They’re pale, too, a sickly grey mixed with the slightest hints of light blue. 

Without giving her actions much thought, Darby reaches into her pocket and takes out a small container of lip balm. The citrus-scented wax is a little warm, having absorbed her body heat for the past few hours. She pops the cap off, holding it in her left hand while she uses her right to bring the chapstick to Bill’s lips. 

Goodness, this is all so real. 

Tangible is a much better word. Fits better.

When she applies the balm to Bill’s bottom lip, it moves with the pressure. It’s as if his real, physical body had been left behind on accident, and Darby is here taking care of it. After everything, it’s the least she could do. 

Other considerations need to be made, however. If this isn’t real, this must be her own strange way of coping with his loss. Darby will have to touch grass sometime soon, but only after she touches therapy.

After running the balm over Bill’s top lip, Darby returns the chapstick to pants her pocket. Hopefully, that feels good for him. Hopefully, the chapstick gives him some of the warmth he needs.

All of this—it’s crazy. Darby still can’t wrap her mind around it.

“But I think I get it now.” Bill can’t rub his lips together. All he can do is talk and stare. “You don’t mean to be that way, just like you don’t mean to push people away,” and he continues without missing a beat. “I took it all personally. I was bitter after I left, and I stayed bitter for the next few years.”

Darby listens. Out of respect, it’s all she can manage. She bites her tongue, holding back more questions that threaten to ease their way out of her mouth. Again, this is Bill’s time, not hers. If he needs to open up, then so be it.

“But part of that was the trauma, I think. It’s not every day you watch a serial killer take his own life. All of that stayed with me, and I kept thinking about it.” Bill pauses, and for the first time since he appeared on the floor, his gaze shifts to something other than Darby. Her heart drops to the pit of her stomach as something dark and sinister clouds his eyes.

“Him shooting himself in the head—it wouldn’t stop playing out in my mind like a damn movie—or like a bad taste I couldn’t get out of my mouth. I could smell his blood on my face for three years, Darby. That shit stayed with me, it screwed up my head.”

Uh oh.

Darby can guess what he’s about to say next. The phrases enter her mind like lyrics to a song she can’t get out of her head.

And it’s your fault. It’s your fault we broke into a suspected serial killer’s former home. It’s your fault I was scarred for life. It’s your fault I started using heroin and morphine after I left you. It’s your fault I’m dead, now.

None of that is said, though. But the same can’t be spoken for whether any of it is felt. Bill is full of surprises, and the gentle, dog-like demeanor he held while alive appears to extend to his spirit, too.

“… If I’m being honest, I blamed you, for a while. Going to rehab helped, I talked to a therapist there who helped me work out the mess in my head. And she mentioned that you probably struggle with avoidant attachment…”

Ouch. To claim she knows what those words mean would be a blatant lie, but something about them—and Bill’s mention of his time in rehab, something Darby discovered from her own Internet searching—make her grimace. Darby can only sit and wait for more of an explanation from Bill, and lucky for her, he still wants to talk.

Or rather, he still has time to talk.

A grimace of his own paints Bill’s face as he clears his throat. “Your mom left you, right? And your dad never paid much attention to you?”

Ouch, part two. Did he have to bring her family into this?

“Yeah. I mean—no—“ her eyes shut for a moment. “yes. You’re right,” Darby murmurs. She can’t look Bill in the eye anymore, so her light blue gaze focuses on the injection scab on his right bicep. It doesn’t take a genius to understand what he’s getting at. “You’re scared people will leave you. It makes sense, now. You push people away because you’re scared of them leaving.”

Something in Darby shifts. It’s a good shift, like a weight lifting from Darby’s shoulders and chest, a weight she didn’t know she was even carrying. Breathing feels easier. Her heart feels lighter. Darby breathes a gentle sigh.

“You want to feel like you’re in control, so you leave before anyone can leave you.” Bill finally says it. “You leave in conversations, you leave in—in emotional intimacy, you stay analytical because being analytical means you think with your head and not with your heart.”

Even the words that flow from him are pure art. Poetic, thoughtful—just like he who utters them.

The gentleness of his tone makes her feel safe, or at least safe enough to look at him again. Darby’s eyes find their back to Bill’s. When he remains quiet, she takes that as her cue to speak—to explain herself.

“I…” 

But Darby struggles to find the words. What should she say? What could she say? Should she argue with Bill and tell him that he—and his therapist from rehab—are wrong? Should she berate him for making assumptions about her and her personal life? He isn’t—wasn’t a trained mental health professional. Interacting with a psychologist once doesn’t make you an expert on the mind, and Darby could argue that this isn’t Bill’s place to talk.

But she doesn’t.

“I… I didn’t know…” she murmurs.

I didn’t know I was doing all of that.

So many words will remain unspoken. Darby can only pray that Bill’s reanimated corpse—whatever this body lying before her is—can’t read minds.

“I’m sorry, Bill…” Darby chokes out, her voice laced with a reflection of the pain she feels inside. The emotional kind, the kind that leaves scars more painful than the physical kind. Bill is no stranger to either; tattoos take quite a bit of time to heal, and PTSD even longer. “I’m so sorry…”

But nothing will ever make this better for Bill. No apology, no hug, no kiss, nothing. Bill is gone—that can’t be undone. While Darby could easily program some AI to speak with Bill’s voice, appear with Bill’s face and body from a projector, and even adopt his mannerisms down to the faintest breath, Bill cannot be brought back to life. Mimicked, yes. Made into a superficial copy, sure. But no cheap replica replaces a handcrafted work of true art.

Bill was a masterpiece.

Tears flood Darby’s eyes before she can even process the extent of what she feels. The stinging sensation in her eyes reminds her of the time she and Bill spotted that wildfire, a few miles beyond the gas station they stopped at. Before entering the Silver Doe Killer’s house. The smoke got in her eyes—isn’t there a song titled that? “Smoke Gets In Your Eyes” or something, an oldie on Darby’s mom’s iPod. 

There she goes again, distracting herself from an issue that needs to be addressed. Bill, even from the great beyond, looks out for Darby.

She turns her head to the right, away from Bill, and covers her mouth with her hand. Whether the action is out of shock or to simply mask her cries, she isn’t sure. A part of her almost expects Bill to wrap his long, tattooed arms around her, and Darby’s body seeks his warmth and the familiar scent of pine that drifts from him like smoke drifts from a cigarette. To her disappointment, empty air surrounds her. The only smell she can acknowledge is the scent of a room that has been unoccupied for a while.

“There ya go.” Bill’s voice provides comfort where his body physically can’t. “It’s okay to cry, Darby. I mean, seeing you cry makes me wanna cry, but this is already a step—“

“I don’t want to be like this, Bill! I really don’t!” Now, it’s her turn to cut him off.

Once the floodgates open, it seems there’s nothing that can close them. Besides, Bill is right. Darby should stop bottling up her emotions. This, this very thing—crying, or feeling guilt—is what separates her from heartless AI entities like Ray. To feel is to be human. You can’t have one without the other. To think, for the majority of her life, Darby repressed the very thing that makes her a real, genuine human. 

A soulless entity without emotion is what killed Billed. Ray is to blame, though technically, the fault makes its bed with Andy. What kind of idiot makes his designated security system his therapist, too? Answer: Andy Ronson. The same kind of idiot who abused his wife and controlled every aspect of her and her child’s lives. Andy is just as at fault as technology is. Ray can’t—Ray couldn’t feel. Ray simply eliminated what he perceived to be a threat to Andy and his family. He did what he was designed to do. Faulty coding, in Bill’s wise words.

A soulless entity without emotion is something Darby never wants to be, never again. A computer program analyzes things without subjective thought, and it’s about time Darby recognizes that she isn’t a computer program. Acting like a soulless entity without emotion is what hurt Bill many times, before he decided he received enough.

“I just—I just can’t help it…” Darby can’t even bring herself to face Bill. Forget being unable to make eye contact with him; her gaze fixates on the dried blood left on the fireplace. Made brown by oxidation, the stain serves as another reminder of Bill’s horrific demise and how she was a pawn for it. “I was scared you’d get tired of me, I was scared you’d leave—and you did, but it was my fault—“

Self-fulfilling prophecy, a term Darby found while browsing through a few of the true-crime posts on Reddit. She never thought she’d find the words applicable to her own life. Out of fear Bill would leave her as her mother had, she drove him away until he had no choice but to take off from their motel room on foot. He cared enough to leave the car for her, but his sudden absence overshadowed his act of kindness.

If Darby knew Bill would permanently leave her six years later, she would’ve cried a whole lot harder the morning he walked out all those years ago.

Bill opens his mouth, tearing Darby from her relentless string of thoughts.

“Hey, c’mon… you’ve flagellated yourself enough. That isn’t why we’re having this talk.”

No, Darby knows Bill’s intention isn't to punish her or make her feel even guiltier than she already does. But if that’s so, what’s the meaning of this? As if on cue, Bill answers. Maybe his ghost-corpse can read thoughts. Maybe he just chooses what to respond to.

“I care about you, Darby. I love you. I still did, even after six years.” 

Finally, Darby forces her head back in Bill’s direction. As expected, he hasn’t moved from his spot on the rug. The paleness of his lifeless skin catches Darby by surprise again; all she could think about was the warmth he and his complexion once radiated. The difference is drastic, and the difference is devastating.

Swallowing, Bill continues. “I didn’t wanna die. But you being the last person or thing I saw… it made it a million times better.”

Darby could cry more at those words. As a matter of fact, she does.

A gentle smile pulls at the corners of Bill’s lips, an effort made solely to reassure Darby. She knows this, because after a second or two, his smile drops again. 

“If you walk through the rest of your life this way, you’ll be miserable and you’ll be hurt. I don’t want that for you, Darby. You don’t have to be this way forever.”

Again, he’s right. God bless Bill Farrah—he holds so much faith in her. Always has, always will, it seems. The sentiment squeezes her heart. More tears trail down her tired face. Streaks of red appear in their wake, tainting Darby’s pale-ish skin. Her paleness quite literally pales in comparison to Bill’s.

A beat.

Darby sniffles. “You think I can change…?”

Where she lacks confidence, Bill delivers. Darby never believed in “other halves” or “soulmates,” but Bill changed that. Tweaked it, more like, but regardless, he made Darby realize that loneliness isn’t what she wants in life. She wants a friend, a partner in true crime, and someone who loves her for who she is. 

That was Bill.

If she could travel back in time, she’d kick her younger self for letting Bill go, but only after stopping Bill from accepting Andy’s retreat invitation in the first place.

Darby expects a nod. She doesn’t get one. Bill’s head hasn’t moved in the slightest. The position his neck is twisted in looks uncomfortable, to say the least. Being dead must feel much worse, though…

“Yeah. I do. But the question is, do you think you can?”

“Of course. I’m capable,” Darby is quick to respond. With her maroon sweater sleeve, she wipes her cheeks. She is nowhere finished with crying, but cleaning up is always good to practice. Her bedroom at home suggests otherwise, but that isn’t important right now. “But I just…” 

She clicks her tongue. Her eyes clench shut again. More tears seep out.

“I don’t think I can get over it, you know. The fear of being abandoned, it just—I don’t know how I can help it—“

“Let it happen,” Bill cuts her off once more.

Darby opens her eyes. She stares down at Bill, her face contorting in a mix of shock and confusion. Did he seriously just…?

“What…?”

“I said, let it happen. Let someone leave you. Don’t leave them first. It’s the only way to beat it.”

“Why in the hell would I do that?”

Her question makes Bill snort in amusement. His mouth stretches to form a grin, one that looks a little more human this time. It’s the kind of smile that affects his eyes, making them squint a little. “So you can surprise yourself with how resilient you are. It’ll hurt, but it’ll pass, Darby. It’ll become digestible.”

As if. Darby shakes her head. “If it’ll pass, it’ll pass like a kidney stone. I just can’t do that, Bill.”

“You can watch a guy blow his brains out and see his blood splatter all over my face, but you can’t let someone leave you? Get real,” snickers Bill. Although his eyes shine with amusement, Darby notices that they’re beginning to grow tired.

The more she looks at him, the more his gorgeous features etch their way into her memory again. After growing accustomed to his paleness, Darby sees a bit of the old Bill. They never got sick of looking at one another when they drove across the country. This is the same Bill she met that night in Ray’s Tavern.

“Ray’s” Tavern. What a funny coincidence.

She’s never experienced something like this before. Never. The dead have never manifested themselves in such a way, they’ve never really communicated with her, so she has no idea how the rest of their meeting will play out. Yet… something tells her that her time with Bill is almost up. Call it a hunch, call it paranoia.

“Okay. I’ll… try. But maybe not right away.”

“That’s all I ask. For your sake, Darby.”

Darby nods. She flashes Bill a soft, albeit sad smile, and she places her left hand on his corresponding bicep. These crazy tattoos covering his body… she’ll miss studying their details almost as much as she’ll miss his deep, perpetually weary voice. Even the new tattoos, the ones she hadn’t seen before the night of their reunion.

The damn things are the reason he couldn’t settle for a normal nine-to-five office job. Bill Farrah had to get out of Ohio and make a name for himself. Fangs, to be exact, and Fangs had to make art. 

Bill always knew how to express himself. It came naturally, like sneezing, especially when he stepped out into the light of day from the darkness of, say, a movie theater. Expression was as effortless as the effects of ACHOO Syndrome were for Bill. 

Which reminds her…

In the few minutes they have left, Darby considers informing Bill of his relation to Zoomer. Would the poor guy want to know that the crazy fortune teller’s “vision” came true? Does he already know?

Regardless of the answer, that isn’t how Darby wants to spend these next few minutes. They can discuss his biological child another time, maybe when Darby joins him. Hopefully, it’ll be a long while before that happens. Darby has a life to live and some bad habits to change. 

She also has another book to write—something like a deep-dive analysis of Fangs’s art. Yes, Bill just asked her to be less analytical only minutes prior, but he meant that in connection to an emotional capacity and not an occupational one. Right?

It doesn’t matter, not right now. Bill’s eyes grow heavier, like he’ll fall asleep and fade away any second.

Darby moves closer to Bill, specifically to the spot just above where his head rests on the floor. His tired blue eyes follow her as much as they physically can before the tension in his strained gaze forces him to stare straight up at the ceiling again.

Darby’s slender, gentle fingers run through his soft, dark hair, and her rings almost get caught on the strands once or twice. Screw what everyone else thinks; Bill’s goofy little mullet was cute. It suited Bill, though Darby has to admit—his hairstyle, paired with his numerous tattoos, made him look a bit unapproachable and mean. Bill’s looks deceived more than anything. Despite being ridiculously tall, constantly wearing a frown, and being covered in odd ink, Bill was a gentle giant. Darby will never meet another man like him, and thank God for that. Bill, as unique as he was, deserves to stand out. Again, he’s a work of art. Many will try to replicate him, but at the end of the day, down to the dawn of the morning, there will only be one William Farrah—and Darby is beyond grateful to have known the original on such an intimate level, however short their time together was.

“Do you need your neck cracked?” She asks, a smile painting her face. Bill looks so peaceful. His eyes are half open.

“Yes, please,” he murmurs. The slur in his tired speech makes him sound a little drunk. It’s cute. “How’d you know?”

Placing her hands on either side of his head, Darby lifts his head from the rug. “You used it as a metaphor. I figured you were speaking from experience, like, recent experience.”

The largest of the blood stains in this room lies just beneath the shadow of his skull resting in her hands. The spot where he collapsed and ultimately died. Darby shudders, but she recomposes herself.

Focus on Bill, not the blood. The blood will always be there for her to gawk at. The same can’t be said for her best friend.

As gently and as quickly as she can, Darby cocks his head to the left. A symphony of crackles and pops erupts from his neck, followed by a satisfied moan from Bill.

“… that felt great,” he breathes a sigh of relief. 

How can a dead guy who isn’t breathing even sigh? 

Darby giggles. 

Thankful ocean-blue eyes glance up at her as best as they can from their position. Darby’s face is upside down, and everything feels like it’s fading.

“Want me to twist to the right now?”

“Yeah, that’d be great. Thanks.”

To the right, and—more cracking ensues, disturbing the momentary quiet that begins to settle in the room.

“Ah—that was great, seriously. Can you do my back next?” Bill’s eyes are almost completely closed. His words are hardly intelligible thanks to how he mumbles.

Continuing to crack every joint and bone in Bill’s body wouldn’t be a problem for Darby if they had more time, but the fact of the matter stands; Darby can feel each valuable second tick by. They’re running out of time, they’re closer to the end than they’ve been before—she can’t explain it, she simply feels it.

“I’ll do you one better, Bill. How about this?” 

With closed eyes, Darby leans down and presses her lips to Bill’s. She can smell the faint scent of citrus left behind from the chapstick as she kisses him—the waxy residue transfers to her lips. Kissing Bill is just like she remembered, except maybe a bit colder and a little less… active. That, however, is no one’s fault. To her delight, Bill can return the gentle kiss. When Darby pulls away, his eyes are completely shut.

“Mmm… yeah, that’s… that’s much better…” he mumbles, growing less coherent with each word he breathes.

Before Darby can respond with some playful remark of her own, her eyes open. 

They open. Really open.

She stares at the ceiling, and in apparent confusion, she studies her surroundings.

Bed, wall, sliding glass door, mirror.

Darby wasn’t asleep—she doesn’t feel like she just woke up in the traditional sense. But how can she open eyes that were already open? Instead, Darby feels as if she just snapped back to reality from some kind of daydream—but that can’t be.

Bill’s freezing skin, his equally cold lips. Even the sound of his voice in her ears felt like a sweet, familiar song. All of these things were so tangible. Darby touched him, for crying out loud! She felt the softness of his cheek, and she still feels the tingling sensation his icy flesh left in her palm.

That, whatever that was, was a hell of a dissociation episode. That’s the most reasonable explanation she can come up with, but Darby isn’t concerned with analyzing the details anymore. 

The lingering taste of citrus lip balm leads her to believe that what she just experienced was real in some capacity. Darby’s mouth will stay shut, though. The only person she would feel comfortable explaining this situation to is dead, and frankly, was the subject of the situation in question.

Her body sprawls out over the bed. When she heaves herself up, Darby instantly notes how empty the room is. Not of furniture, no. Once again, Bill’s assigned room is missing its most prized possession: Bill Farrah himself.

The disappointment makes Darby’s stomach drop. “Bill…?” 

Unlike before, the word floats into space, vanishing into thin air the moment it leaves her mouth. Bill can’t move, and now, he can’t talk. Or even show himself.

The rug is clear of any body, let alone Bill’s. The blood from the night he was murdered is all that remains of him. That, and his words in Darby’s mind.

I care about you, Darby. I love you.

It’ll hurt, but it’ll pass.

For your sake.

It’s decided. Things will change. If Darby doesn’t care about herself to begin such a shift, she’ll use Bill and his desires as motivation. 

Bill deserves as much.

—

The plane ride back to the States will be long. Unlike during the trip to the Icelandic retreat, Darby feels like she can finally relax. That last talk with Bill brought her the peace she didn’t know she needed. It’s a peace like nothing she’s ever felt before. 

Will she ever come to terms with Bill’s death completely? No, no way. Darby will never want to. When she gets back to the safety of her home, she’ll grieve properly. Openly. Without shame, without holding back, for Bill.

Part of her finds this sudden commitment amusing. Will Bill even know if she acts on his request?

Slipping her earbuds in, Darby decides she’ll try to take a nap. Maybe distract herself from all the events that transpired in the past few days. Either way, music can help her accomplish both feats.

The pink dye has already faded from her short, now light blonde locks. Darby's shoes lay beside her socked feet. The first thing she plans on doing when she gets home is taking a long, hot bath, followed by a short, hot shower.

No use wasting water. The Earth is dying. Darby’s reminded of what Rohan told her about Bill.

He gave me the only thing that can really change a person… a different perspective. So what if the Earth becomes a swamp again? New creatures will be born from it.

Death begins new life.

Bill always had a way with words. That boy could think, really think. As a result, he changed lives.

“No More I Love You’s” plays in Darby’s ears. Annie Lennox’s singing startles her. She forgot she wanted to listen to music to begin with. 

What a song to play…

Immediately, a flood of emotions overwhelms her—remorse, grief, amusement, happiness, and then sadness—all in that order. 

Once upon a time, in pre-Bill-storic times, Darby loved this song. So much so, that she listened to it until she nearly gagged at the mention of its name. During Bill, she tolerated it, but the lasting memory of their carpool duet made her fall in love with it all over again.

But she can’t listen to this one, not now. Darby needs to have more practice with feeling emotions as opposed to analyzing them, and she prefers if that journey begins when she gets home—not on this plane. Her thumb hovers over the “skip” button, and she presses down.

Not all the way, though, because something stops her.

A thought pops into her mind, one that isn’t her own, and it’s clearer than a glass of filtered water, almost like a spoken voice.

“No, no, leave it on.”

Looking around for him proves to be pointless. But he’s here, Darby feels it again.

“Okay, Bill…” she muses in a whisper. Thank God she waited for the next private jet. Imagine the weird looks she’d get from Martin or Lu Mei…

Darby leaves it on. 

Bill deserves as much.