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When I call you and am too scared to say anything, all my words gone because I’m crying and so I just hang up the phone, you always make sure to call me right back because you’re my best friend in the whole world and you tell me that everything’s gonna be fine, it’ll be okay, that everything bad ends at some point, and that there’s always a reason, and that it’s really going to be okay, I swear, Dylan.
But I know better. It’s not going to be okay, it’s not, not ever again, not after we do what we’re planning to do. I know. I might pretend otherwise, but I know. Because I will have crossed a line.
With you.
A line we can’t ever go back from, can’t ever uncross.
And I just might maybe whimper a little when I realize that what we have?
It’ll be over.
The connection that I have with you is like nothing I’ve ever had with any other person ever, living or dead. And it’ll be gone. For good.
And when we’re standing there in the library, surrounded by books torn apart by our bullets and spattered with blood, and blood pooling on the carpeted floor, and dead kids, and the smell of fucking death and I didn’t even know what death smelled like when I woke up the morning and now I don’t know if I’ll ever get the smell out of my nostrils, and you look at me and your eyes are shining and you grab my wrist but not too hard, not hard enough to bruise or anything, and you smile at me, a wide jack-o-lantern grin, “We did it, Dylan, we did it.”
And I see it, in the back of your eyes, behind the fury and the rage and the absolute glee of vengeance and the high the killing has brought us, I see love.
And so when I hold that gun up to my head, I’m not scared, not even a little tiny bit. The blood pounds in my ears for a moment…then…
“One! Two! Three!”
Bang.