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“Have no regrets,” they say. To have a truly fulfilling life, one must have no regrets. No one ever explains what to do when your life might be ending any second, but everything you’ve ever done in the past years is one big tangle of regrets.
Mike didn’t think he was going to die. He firmly believed he never would. It was his teenage all-or-nothing mindset speaking, where he was the main character and the author simultaneously, able to rewrite the story at any moment and come out as the winner from the battle. His young self didn’t know that the winner never gets anything at the end.
Death was something too distant in the future, too incomprehensible to grasp, even when it stood close. He didn’t fear it. He never truly did. When standing on the edge between life and death, he only felt scared because of that impending doom, reminding him of everything he hadn’t done.
As a writer, of course, Mike had his own doctrine. He repeated it so many times it became engraved in his memory, like a quote from your favourite book that you write inside school books, diaries, under desks, scribble on the ground, carve into wood, or on any surface. Mike wished he’d never followed it.
It was meant to save him, but it was what took him down.
Stay withdrawn from anything that might consume you. Never get too close, too absorbed, or too dependent, because it will destroy you. Feelings are heavy. They lie like a concrete plate pushing down on you and razing you to the ground. Mike had learned and thought it was right. Being attached was too much, and he never wanted to feel like the dust again. Motionless, speechless, but forced to be there and keep on existing when it no longer made any sense.
Don’t close the distance. Whenever you get the chance, never be the one to initiate. The risks are too great and unnecessary, while the reward is uncertain and may turn out to be your greatest punishment. Distance is secure because the reach is never endless: the sword always has its point. Mike dreaded the idea of ever becoming a broken toy no longer needed or a cheap trinket from the flea market.
Between the choice of being hurt or hurting, always choose the second. No matter what. Be the first one to say the mean words, land a punch, or stab someone in the back, because if you don’t, the knife will be poking out of your corpse. Living with chronic agony was often better; it could be shut off. Burning away the pain out of the closed wounds, instead of rubbing the cut open ones with ethanol.
The chain of thoughts going through his mind when he was going to face death itself wasn’t about gratefulness for living by the rules. It wasn’t about feeling safe inside his shell or free from how detached he was. It was about each and every time that he wasn’t honest enough, immersed enough, each time he was a coward, and every time he was away from Will when he could’ve not been.
First and foremost, he hadn’t been honest with himself. Each time he had to silence every strong emotion, tear, laugh, or scream, he wasn’t doing himself a favor. When Mike spoke about him to others, he never allowed himself to say more than two words because if he did, he would have to face it. The truth would slip from his tongue, and he would be a fool. Everyone already had somebody, but Mike was playing it cool, “the way adults do.”
There were memories, playing out right before his eyes, along with all regrets. A huge exhibition with the title “All the Reasons Why Mike Wheeler Was a Fool.” He could’ve simply rewritten the scenario, but chose to walk around and gaze at the exhibits, the crazy visitor who comes in from time to time and exhales heavily at each painting, as if he hadn’t seen it thousands of times before.
All the lost time, each tiny moment when Mike averted his eyes, refusing to look at Will and going by his stupid codex, was his own crime. Nothing could wash the blood off his hands; he killed them. Each second that he wouldn’t look at Will, finding new microemotions on his face or studying a new portion of his skin, was another innocent person he’d murdered with his own hands, now drowning in the guilt of an unbearable sin.
The impossible epilogue was never going to be published. Mike had already written it in his head with all the tiny details. The walls of their unbuilt house, the frame of their unassembled bed, the thumps of the steps of their unborn children, the happiness of the future life they could never have were sinking like the Titanic after the crash. The precious hopes in the form of the lighthouse in the distance, never close enough to reach but never stopping their shining before the sunrise. He’d already determined their fate.
There is no escape, and there never was. The character Mike Wheeler wrote was no more than just a stupid muppet, letting his mind rest from constant throbbing. All his acts were wrecked by the rocks of shame, and he would never be pronounced a hero.
Before the final battle, he’s taking off all his armor. He leaves behind his shield and sword. He spreads his arms out and stands, showing he’s defenseless. The loss is inevitable. He leaves himself no root for escape and no strength to fight. He’d already missed his most damaging hit. There was no point in fearing anything else.
Because he knew he was not going to die. As long as he thought of Will, nothing could happen to him. He couldn’t be crucified for his crimes, or torn apart by a violent crowd, or suffocated under an avalanche. Will was his anchor, proving his existence and making him alive. Even if his physical body were demolished, he wouldn’t be truly gone.
Confession was Mike’s arrow, piercing right through his Achilles’ heel. It was the only poison he wasn’t resistant to. Going down this route meant being unable to dodge the final blow. His body being cut into small pieces, his throat slit right across, and the poison poured on top of it like medicine. His doctors were now his pallbearers. He never needed the treatment.
If Will ever deigned to touch Mike’s rotten flesh with his pure hands, all the filth would immediately spill through, submerging them in obscenity. It would even if Will were against it. Mike would fall so deep inside of him, Will would have to carry this live burden for the rest of his days.
Mike was a shitty writer with his layered and complex narrative, but with no meaning. No true message behind it because he was too cowardly to reveal it. Dropping hints here and there, shaping the world in such a way that it was possible, but never fixed. He wouldn’t let anyone find out what he truly meant. He would rather die than ever do that.