Sequel: Requiem of Revenge ›
When Three Becomes Two
Epilogue
Billie’s PoV
Eight Years Later
Eight years have passed since then. Eight springs, summers, falls, and winters. It’s been so long.
There’s still an odd tranquility about it. My life seems full now, complete. My band, my life’s work, is done and forgotten. No one remembers it now. No one remembers me or Mike.
Occasionally they will. Sometimes I’ll walk by people and hear whispering. Whispering about that band from ten years ago, who seemed on top of the world—then lost it all.
But what do they know?
I haven’t lost it all. Not yet.
Every week, I have something to look forward to. Just one hour of talking to my old friends. It’s my only time to talk to the other two—I never see Mike anymore except those golden hours, hidden in the shadows with a worn Ouija board.
Those precious hours send us shooting back in time. Memories hidden away are dusted off and prodded through. We gossip. We joke. And we laugh.
Just once a week. But that’s all I need.
I still live with Adrienne. Mike’s still with his own wife. But we’re not quite as close as we used to be. I know Adie worries about me. I know I’m isolated, with my head in the clouds, dazed. With the exception of those weekly hours. But she doesn’t know that.
I still love her. But I love my friends even more.
Once a year, we go back to visit the grave. Neither of us knows why—it’s never been discussed, yet the two of us know to come at the same time, on that same day when our best friend died.
Is ‘died’ the proper word? I don’t really know. We still talk to him, even if it’s a rare event. I suppose that day is more of an anniversary of when barriers were put up
between us; of when our friendship very nearly came to a close.
Nevertheless, we still go.
Today was one of those days—the black anniversary. I left as usual, at five sharp, weaving my way through the quiet Mendicino Mountains. Mike arrived at the same time as I did.
Gravel crunching beneath our feet, we made eye contact once, nodded, and walked side by side to the stone marker. It wasn’t long before we found it, and kneeled down beside the grave that marked the presence of our friend’s corpse.
The stone had once been white; I could see that. Now that time had done its damage, it was now a faded, dusty gray. The words that had been carved into it were now faint and difficult to read.
It had been a decade ago the first time I had been here. It felt even longer ago, though. The person that had kneeled by this grave so long ago, tears tumbling down their cheeks, was not me. It was like a little brother I had lost.
Indeed, I had lost so much that day, during that phone call. I had once said that losing my father had taken away my innocence. I was wrong.
Because now, I was no longer that guy from TRL, with the black eyeliner and ratty Converses. I was no longer the kid who sang his soul to thousands of people, who regarded you with that punk-veteran glare.
I was a man who had lost what had rightfully been mine. Despite the golden hours I had been given, I had still had everything die with my friend. In the outside world, away from my friends, I was now an empty shell of a man whose promising future had gone
horribly astray.
But in the most bizarre way, I was happy. How many people get to communicate with a lost loved one beyond the stone barrier of a grave?
I know I’m lucky.
For the first time, I did not cry as I sat above my dead friend’s bones. I merely sat there with Mike, listening to the wind, remembering…
The sun was beginning to set as together we stood up there in the graveyard. It
was quiet. So quiet…
Before we walked away, I read the lettering one last time. The brilliant reds and oranges of the sun made the rock appear to glow.
Tre Cool
1972-2007
Beloved husband, father, friend, and drummer.
Even death cannot loosen the bonds of friendship.
Thank you.
The sun now sank behind the trees, giving one last sharp flash of warm yellow light. The two of us turned to leave.
Something stopped me in my tracks.
There, lying softly in the grass, a small bouquet of flowers was visible. The black, white and red roses were delicately tied with a scarlet satin ribbon. Drenched in colorful sunlight, the dull black and white hues were now stunning oranges and yellows. It was something so small…but so beautiful.
Carefully I picked them up and laid them on my friend’s grave, caressing the flowers—a gift from the living to the dead.
Mike laid a hand on my shoulder, and together we left our hearts behind us.
The End
Eight Years Later
Eight years have passed since then. Eight springs, summers, falls, and winters. It’s been so long.
There’s still an odd tranquility about it. My life seems full now, complete. My band, my life’s work, is done and forgotten. No one remembers it now. No one remembers me or Mike.
Occasionally they will. Sometimes I’ll walk by people and hear whispering. Whispering about that band from ten years ago, who seemed on top of the world—then lost it all.
But what do they know?
I haven’t lost it all. Not yet.
Every week, I have something to look forward to. Just one hour of talking to my old friends. It’s my only time to talk to the other two—I never see Mike anymore except those golden hours, hidden in the shadows with a worn Ouija board.
Those precious hours send us shooting back in time. Memories hidden away are dusted off and prodded through. We gossip. We joke. And we laugh.
Just once a week. But that’s all I need.
I still live with Adrienne. Mike’s still with his own wife. But we’re not quite as close as we used to be. I know Adie worries about me. I know I’m isolated, with my head in the clouds, dazed. With the exception of those weekly hours. But she doesn’t know that.
I still love her. But I love my friends even more.
Once a year, we go back to visit the grave. Neither of us knows why—it’s never been discussed, yet the two of us know to come at the same time, on that same day when our best friend died.
Is ‘died’ the proper word? I don’t really know. We still talk to him, even if it’s a rare event. I suppose that day is more of an anniversary of when barriers were put up
between us; of when our friendship very nearly came to a close.
Nevertheless, we still go.
Today was one of those days—the black anniversary. I left as usual, at five sharp, weaving my way through the quiet Mendicino Mountains. Mike arrived at the same time as I did.
Gravel crunching beneath our feet, we made eye contact once, nodded, and walked side by side to the stone marker. It wasn’t long before we found it, and kneeled down beside the grave that marked the presence of our friend’s corpse.
The stone had once been white; I could see that. Now that time had done its damage, it was now a faded, dusty gray. The words that had been carved into it were now faint and difficult to read.
It had been a decade ago the first time I had been here. It felt even longer ago, though. The person that had kneeled by this grave so long ago, tears tumbling down their cheeks, was not me. It was like a little brother I had lost.
Indeed, I had lost so much that day, during that phone call. I had once said that losing my father had taken away my innocence. I was wrong.
Because now, I was no longer that guy from TRL, with the black eyeliner and ratty Converses. I was no longer the kid who sang his soul to thousands of people, who regarded you with that punk-veteran glare.
I was a man who had lost what had rightfully been mine. Despite the golden hours I had been given, I had still had everything die with my friend. In the outside world, away from my friends, I was now an empty shell of a man whose promising future had gone
horribly astray.
But in the most bizarre way, I was happy. How many people get to communicate with a lost loved one beyond the stone barrier of a grave?
I know I’m lucky.
For the first time, I did not cry as I sat above my dead friend’s bones. I merely sat there with Mike, listening to the wind, remembering…
The sun was beginning to set as together we stood up there in the graveyard. It
was quiet. So quiet…
Before we walked away, I read the lettering one last time. The brilliant reds and oranges of the sun made the rock appear to glow.
Tre Cool
1972-2007
Beloved husband, father, friend, and drummer.
Even death cannot loosen the bonds of friendship.
Thank you.
The sun now sank behind the trees, giving one last sharp flash of warm yellow light. The two of us turned to leave.
Something stopped me in my tracks.
There, lying softly in the grass, a small bouquet of flowers was visible. The black, white and red roses were delicately tied with a scarlet satin ribbon. Drenched in colorful sunlight, the dull black and white hues were now stunning oranges and yellows. It was something so small…but so beautiful.
Carefully I picked them up and laid them on my friend’s grave, caressing the flowers—a gift from the living to the dead.
Mike laid a hand on my shoulder, and together we left our hearts behind us.
The End