We Only Breathe For So Long

Eric and I stepped out of the car, realizing seconds later that we didn’t have the house keys. Let’s drive ten miles to an unknown destination to visit your friend’s real house and don’t bother to have the keys in hand. Genius!

“Where would you put the keys?” I moaned, hoping he would remember at least that. “I mean, you gotta have spare keys somewhere!”

He scratched his head, uncertain. “Uhh, I-” he tried to think, obviously not reaching any thought. “I would most likely tape it under an object. Wouldn’t that be a smart thing to do? I’m a smart guy, right?”

I nodded my head, probably boosting his long forgotten little ego by a million. We searched every spot from the front of the premises. The house was on the other side of the gate, so we were hoping all the keys would be together somewhere along this area. Eric ran his hands through the gate, and I did the same with the mailbox, trying to feel an uneven bump along the way.

“Bingo!” Eric said with a grin. The keys were behind the spikes, beneath the gigantic black gate.

We got past the garden, where a multitude of unknown flowers were perfectly trimmed, leaving a pleasing fragrance in the air. There was a lovebird seat made out of stone, and a statue of an unrecognizable man beside it. Eric pushed open the front doors with difficulty, they were big and thrice higher than us.

The inside of the house was large, light colors predominated most of the walls and rooms that could be seen at this point. The stairs to the second floor was right in front of the front door, the first thing you’d encounter when you stepped in, and below it was a dog house build under the stairs, with a sign on top written ‘Max’ on it. We both explored the house, parting our ways to visit different rooms, astonished at its delicate decorations.

I wondered if we were in the right house various times, but the pictures handed on the walls had proven me wrong; this was no doubts Eric’s home, his real home. You could clearly see he spent a lot of time in here since most of the rooms were messy while the objects carried his fragrance around.

There was three bedrooms, two of them being suites, one bathroom, and an office upstairs. Downstairs there were two living rooms– one with a television and the other with a fireplace –, the kitchen, laundry room, and another office. It was definitely not his fake-house, it couldn’t be compared to its simplicity. I imagined a wealthy businessman to be living in this place, not a guy who worked in a bookshop for a living.

My mouth had been dry because it was opened the entire time as I regressed my steps back to the front door, ending my mini-tour of the house. After all I’d seen, I realized I didn’t know Eric at all. Here I was, standing in his hidden house, the one no one knew about. The house he never bothered to tell me, most likely because I wasn’t worthy enough to know about it or because he didn’t trust me. I was touring a stranger’s house, not my friend’s. What possible reason could explain the need to hide your house from everyone you know except your best friend? Wasn’t I his best friend too?

I slowly walked towards the transparent doors that led to the backyard, looking at the photos that hanged on the corridor’s wall. There was a picture of him when he was just a little baby, he had sandy brown hair back then, and his eyes were bluer than the ocean itself. The next photo was a set of photos of his family, celebrating something over dinner, they all looked happy and photoshoped to perfection. Then there’s a picture of his former friends in high school, including Greg. He looked hideous, just like American movies stereotype nerds– trousers high up their waist, geeky glasses, braces and a bad case of acne. The other remaining pictures were photos of landscapes, places he had visited and taken the pictures himself. Eric was rich. As in, filthy rich. He might not own a mansion, but he sure had the money in the bank account to buy one if he needed too. I knew it, because I was wealthy myself. My Dad has many friends, as wealthy as him, who lived in a humble house even though they could afford more. This was one of those instances.

I went outside through the glassy door, entering the backyard. There were outdoor tables, followed by steps that enabled you to step on the grass instead of tiles. Snow covered the entire grass though, up to an extent where no patch of green could be seen. Far ahead, close to the border of the property, was a lake, a frozen one. It seemed as if it never melted before because of the constant low temperature. It was oval shaped and two hockey goal posts were set on both sides. The lines had been painted with a navy blue and red color, but it was unfinished. A can of red paint was frozen close to the uncompleted red circle in the middle of the lake. I stepped down the three steps, staring with awe at the beautiful homemade ice rink, and my heart almost jumped out of my chest.

Automatically, the lights switched on, taking me by surprise and scaring the hell out of me. I looked around to see if anyone had switched them on but no one had done so, because there was no one around. Scared heartbeats after, Eric was stepping down the steps, joining me to contemplate this simple yet beautiful rink. You could clearly see it wasn't unfinished; the person who was building it was still building a stand, to hold the future spectators. There was pile of wood and a toolbox close to the place where the stands would be built. The lights were carefully placed, surrounding the entire lake, making it look almost romantic in a way.

I looked up to look at Eric in the eyes, wanting for him to tell me he had triggered his memory and remembered his old life. But he didn’t. His pierce blue eyes scanned the rink, observing every single detail about it.

“This is beauti–” he began to speak but never had a chance to finish. He collapsed on the snow, faster than my mind could register or my arms could move.

He dropped to the floor, as if his soul had departed from his body. The snow made space to let him bury his weigh in it, making me to notice how high it really was.

I dropped down on my knees, lifting up his head with my cold fingers so he wouldn’t touch the snow. I tried to pull him closer to me, but he was too heavy for my weak arms.

“Eric, Eric!” I pleaded, hoping that my voice would awaken him, or that he was just joking around with me. But his handsome face remained intact, his lips purple from the cold. “If this is some kind of joke, you better stop it before I shove snow in your ass,” I laughed to myself, expecting him to open his eyes and laugh at my sarcastic comment. But he didn’t.

“Please,” I whispered. My eyes became blurry, as the tears swelled up like a wave, ready to swash but never backwash. I padded his cheeks, opened his eyes with my fingers, but they looked dead and lifeless. “Wake up you moron! I need you!” I shouted through the empty air.

I buried my head on his chest, allowing the tears to roll down my cheeks.