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“I’m sorry.”
Two words Mark never thought he’d have to say again had begun to spill from between his lips like a waterfall, repeating over and over in soothing whispers until they’d completely lost their meaning.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”
Mark looked down at his friend’s limp body. Without the blood and bruises around his neck, and without the sickeningly pale tone of his skin, it would be easy to imagine that he was just resting against the Manor’s wall – sleeping soundly and peacefully. His dark, long hair was damp with sweat and rested lightly on his calm face. He remembered how Damien used to sweep away any loose strands of hair that found their way onto his face. He’d complain about how he despised the claustrophobic feeling of it, yet refused to even consider cutting it short. It was that kind of stubbornness and persistence that, if it had remained, might’ve saved him from ending up the way that he did. But who knows? Mark was stubborn and persistent, and look where that got him— alone, kneeling over his best friend’s corpse.
Mark’s trembling hands found their way to Damien’s cheek, which had begun to lose its signature warmth and rosy tint. He let his fingers trace over every little freckle under Damien’s closed eyes, over all the little scars he had from playing too rough when he was little, over his pursed and soft lips. His thumb stopped at the end of Damien’s mouth, gently trying to push the corners into forming a smile. It ended up looking almost uncanny – lacking everything about Damien’s familiar sweet smile except its vague shape.
Looking at his misshapen curled lips that were being held up by the thumbs of an equally misshapen man, Mark felt a twisted and painful version of the warmth that Damien’s smile once gave him, nothing but the aftertaste of the joy it once held. The very sight made Mark’s stomach turn even more than it already had. As the disgusting and unfamiliar feeling of what he can only assume to be guilt began to set in, Mark pulled his hands off Damien’s face, and back was the peaceful, distant looking frown that came with his sleep.
Guilt. What an odd feeling. The human mind can feel grief over its own poor decision making, feel regret and responsibility at actions it chose to take — sometimes knowing how they would inevitably end.
And Mark didn’t know guilt very well. Guilt was more a white noise in the back of his head, ringing endlessly so much so that he’d learned to tune it out. Guilt was a distant friend that he only spoke to when he needed something, or when it needed something from him. Never, not even while he had his hands around Damien’s throat, did he expect this moment to be the time his conscience caught up to him.
Despite the fact Mark was not well-acquainted with guilt, one thing set it apart from the plethora of negative emotions he could’ve pinpointed at that moment. One singular thought that consumed his mind, body, soul and voice.
I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.
It was hitting like bullets, a shot through the heart every time those futile apologies left his mouth. Damien is dead. He is dead. He is dead, his soul is stuck in the horrible void Mark had learned to call home, and he is not coming back. Damien is dead. He is dead, and by Mark’s hands.
And now it was those same hands that Mark put on the corpse’s cold back, gently massaging the points he knew Damien was the most tense – as if clearing his stiffening muscles of their tension would bring him right back to life, as if his muscle ache was the only thing keeping him on the ground.
Mark’s slender fingers found their way to Damien’s neck, placing his fingertips on the deep purple bruises that he’d left just minutes ago. He stopped, reliving the memory.
Despite the dreadful consequences, Mark would’ve been lying if he said that strangling Damien wasn’t exciting. Mark knew what it was like to feel a rush of adrenaline at committing violence, but this was something deeper. Feeling the last breath slip out of Damien’s throat in his hands was borderline euphoric. He recalled the way Damien croaked out his last few breaths; the way his futile little gasps for air gave up on him little by little. He felt the tips of his fingers push into Damien’s neck in remembrance.
There was gasping, choking, then silence. Pure and utter silence, even from the horrible voices that plagued his mind. The hauntings and time itself paused after his friend’s last little choke, giving the dutiful Mayor his well-deserved moment of silence. But the silence was deafening. Disapproving. The voices being quiet felt more like a mother’s punishment than a moment of peace, as if the universe was crossing its arms and saying: Now look what you’ve done.
Silence. Between the two of them, not one breath was taken.
Moving a little bit closer, Mark wrapped his arms around Damien and cradled his body just like he used to when they were young and in love. He stared at Damien’s unmoving pout and began to speak in a low, hoarse whisper.
“Shhh… It’s going to be okay.” He spoke to nobody and began to rock the corpse back and forth, as if comforting a lost child. “I’m sorry this had to happen, I’m so sorry…”
Mark slowly shut his eyes, grasping as much as he could onto an escape he could never get. “...I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you, I…”
He forced a deep breath before slowly lowering his head and planting a soft kiss on Damien’s lips – a last-ditch effort to wake his sleeping beauty from his rest.
“I’m so, so sorry.”