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I was never truly a patient man, but I'm in the process to learn that particular skill. It's the tiniest bit morbid that I only started to attempt it with any seriousness after my own death. A single shot, and suddenly I could see everything, hear everything, and have the certainty... that ages of time would transpire before I could meet you again, dear Sixsmith.
I often replay that scene in my mind. It has a certain moody aesthetic, like the daydreams I had on my bad days, isn't it? Laying on that bathtub, you there cradling me like on a twisted reproduction of La Pietá. Even if you can't believe this, I lament the pain I caused you. I hurt you many times along the years, but nothing compares to the expression that appeared on your face when you found me. If it's of any use, I could try to promise I won't make you suffer like that again. It's a foolish promise, because probably I won't be able to fulfill it, but one can do something of an effort. I just hope that, whenever we meet again, my heart will remember those good intentions.
***
Years have passed already, Sixsmith, and I watch you growing older day by day. Always beautiful. Always sad. I'm unable to regret having ended my life that day, because even now I'm convinced I did the right thing. But I do have become aware of the consequences it had for you, the only person in the planet who gave a damn about me. I don't like you feeling that your love wasn't enough. What I did didn't have anything to do with us. At least that, I can assure you.
***
Of course, life -your life- went on, and I've seen you taking other lovers, fearful, because the world I left behind is one that undobtlessly didn't deserve either of us. But you're still alone in the end. You never married nor had children, none of the youthful men you took to your bed lasted more than a single night. You're surprising me a little here, dear Sixsmith. If my own story had continued, it would have been like that for me; however you, so much more of a traditionalist than me, followed on my footsteps. I can't say that pleases me. I'm selfish and I wanted you for me and only me though I saw myself like an eternally free spirit. But even then, these decades of solitude trailing behind you move me in a way that has nothing to do with poetry.
There's a part of me that takes refuge in the idea you, indeed, loved me more than you would love anyone else. But this wasn't what I wanted for you. Not at all.
***
The disaster knitting behind your back, I watch it like -dare I say it?- the proverbial trainwreck it'll inevitably become. The reactor conspiracy. Luisa Rey, who bears in her shoulder the shooting star of my hip, that one you loved tracing with your teeth so much. I wonder if you noticed the coincidence in some moment. I'm not too sure of what is she, in relation to me, spiritually speaking. I've spent a lot of time in the space between one life and the gates of the afterlife waiting for you, and even then I'm not too sure of how a soul works, or what is even a soul. Does a soul fragment? Is this a boorish cosmical attempt of a reunion over the course of your lifespan, even though my consciousness is still in this place?
I don't believe I will come to know it, and I'm afraid I can't promise to find out an answer in the brief time left on your clock. I can see how the noose is getting tighter around you. And I fear, like I never feared for me, because in a sharp contrast to my own death, yours will not be a liberating choice.
On the other hand -and I said this already, dear Sixsmith, that I'm still the selfish prick you knew- I can't help but be happy knowing that we will see each other again soon.
***
The fuga goes in crescendo and all culminates in the sharp sound of the shooting. But the piece ends with an abrupt silence, the footsteps of your murderer ever so light as he abandoned your room. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Because watching you like this, with a bullet on your brain, hurts me maybe as much as it hurt you to find me in that bathtub. You know I never apologize for anything at all, but right now... I'm so very sorry, Rufus. Forgive me.
I've waited for you fourty-four years. I'm not sure of what's behind the door. I don't know if we will incarnate again, or if we will be in another place entirely. But I can say now, without beating around the bush, that every second on this place has been worth it. In the end, I wasn't able to leave you alone, nor did I want it.
Whatever happens to us, once we're together again, I'll try my best to not make the same mistakes again. Maybe in the next life -or whatever is stored for our future- I will be able to say to your face, out loud and for the first time in all seriousness, that I love you. That I always did.
It will be the first thing I will do when I find you. And that's a promise I do believe I will be able to keep.