Three Cheers for Tragic Ends
Epilogue
EPILOGUE
August 23, 1997
Panic.
“…Can you hear me…?”
“…Gee? Gee! Please, oh, God please wake up–”
“Somebody help! Call 9-1-1, anybody!”
The dull thrum in the artist’s wrist slowed, slowed, slowed… stopped.
“This isn’t happening! This doesn’t happen– Why?”
Muttering, murmuring rumors.
“Two deaths in that house, now?”
“And the poor woman is sick…”
“She’s next. I always knew that house was cursed, I always knew it.”
Gerard looked down at the mess of himself, and his brother, and all the people on the streets, frantic about flailing over yet. Another. Death. In. This. House.
“I’m dead.”
The artist turned to face the younger boy beside him, who sighed; and pushed an auburn curl from his sad, hazel eyes. “Yeah. You are.”
“No one gets hit by a car in a town as small as this. No one gets hit so hard they fly into the fucking lawn–” The artist’s voice was raised with anger, his eyes wide and scared. He felt a warm presence on his forearm and turned, and said, “Frankie, I’m dead.”
“I know you are.”
The two boys could hear rushing, and somewhere off in the distance, sirens. Gerard watched Mikey in the middle of the road, a heightened mess of seventeen-year-old hysterics. “Can he see me?”
“He can see me,” the younger boy shrugged. Gerard blinked, hard, and called out, “Mikey!”
No response. The blonde boy in the middle of the street didn’t flinch, didn’t move, didn’t breathe.
“He can’t hear me.” The artist ran his hands over his face, and turned to Frank. “I’m fucking dead, I’m dead! That- that doesn’t happen to people like me, I’m– I–”
“Well hey, at least the dog survived,” the younger boy spoke humorlessly, eyeing the bichon frise with envy.
“That fucking dog- I’m never walking a dog again! Ever! Who the fuck gets hit walking a dog in the middle of town Bumfuck Nowhere, population absolutely no one but ghosts!”
Frank looked sadly up at the elder boy, and he said, “It’s 2:15 on a Sunday, August 23, 1997.”
“So?”
“One hundred years ago, August 23, 1897, I died. At 2:15. On a Sunday.”
“Oh.” The artist looked contemplative for a moment, before wailing, “I hate myself,” burying his face in the shorter boy’s chest. “I was supposed to have a fucking life, I was gonna get better, and go places.”
Frank muttered, “I know you were,” and ran a hand up the older boy’s back.
“What now?”
“Well,” the younger said, “we wait.”
“For what?”
“I have absolutely no fucking idea.”
FIN
August 23, 1997
Panic.
“…Can you hear me…?”
“…Gee? Gee! Please, oh, God please wake up–”
“Somebody help! Call 9-1-1, anybody!”
The dull thrum in the artist’s wrist slowed, slowed, slowed… stopped.
“This isn’t happening! This doesn’t happen– Why?”
Muttering, murmuring rumors.
“Two deaths in that house, now?”
“And the poor woman is sick…”
“She’s next. I always knew that house was cursed, I always knew it.”
Gerard looked down at the mess of himself, and his brother, and all the people on the streets, frantic about flailing over yet. Another. Death. In. This. House.
“I’m dead.”
The artist turned to face the younger boy beside him, who sighed; and pushed an auburn curl from his sad, hazel eyes. “Yeah. You are.”
“No one gets hit by a car in a town as small as this. No one gets hit so hard they fly into the fucking lawn–” The artist’s voice was raised with anger, his eyes wide and scared. He felt a warm presence on his forearm and turned, and said, “Frankie, I’m dead.”
“I know you are.”
The two boys could hear rushing, and somewhere off in the distance, sirens. Gerard watched Mikey in the middle of the road, a heightened mess of seventeen-year-old hysterics. “Can he see me?”
“He can see me,” the younger boy shrugged. Gerard blinked, hard, and called out, “Mikey!”
No response. The blonde boy in the middle of the street didn’t flinch, didn’t move, didn’t breathe.
“He can’t hear me.” The artist ran his hands over his face, and turned to Frank. “I’m fucking dead, I’m dead! That- that doesn’t happen to people like me, I’m– I–”
“Well hey, at least the dog survived,” the younger boy spoke humorlessly, eyeing the bichon frise with envy.
“That fucking dog- I’m never walking a dog again! Ever! Who the fuck gets hit walking a dog in the middle of town Bumfuck Nowhere, population absolutely no one but ghosts!”
Frank looked sadly up at the elder boy, and he said, “It’s 2:15 on a Sunday, August 23, 1997.”
“So?”
“One hundred years ago, August 23, 1897, I died. At 2:15. On a Sunday.”
“Oh.” The artist looked contemplative for a moment, before wailing, “I hate myself,” burying his face in the shorter boy’s chest. “I was supposed to have a fucking life, I was gonna get better, and go places.”
Frank muttered, “I know you were,” and ran a hand up the older boy’s back.
“What now?”
“Well,” the younger said, “we wait.”
“For what?”
“I have absolutely no fucking idea.”
FIN
♠ ♠ ♠
I. Am. sorry.