Seven Cuts

“Why’d you do it?” Matt asks.
In the dim lights of the bar he looks miserable.
The sadness in his eyes, looks a lot like the sadness that used to haunt my eyes. As I take a seat next to him at the bar, I know I’ve done something horrible. But that wasn’t my intention. I just wanted freedom, not to trap someone else. His eyes are swollen, as though he has been crying for days and his hair looks unwashed and his clothes, unkempt. He probably hasn’t seen a mirror in days either.
“I’m sorry, Matt.”
“I just…I don’t understand.”
We sit silently and Matt takes huge swallows of his drink.
“I know I did it,” Matt says. “I’m responsible for what you did, it’s all on me.”
He starts crying.
He’s in the middle of a crowded bar and he doesn’t even care, that’s how fucked up he is and now he thinks that he murdered me.
“It wasn’t your fault,” I say.
“Yes, it was.”
I know what he’s thinking.
I know the connections his mind is forming and I have to make him understand. “Do you remember that one time when you caught me cutting myself, up in the attic?”
“Yes.”
“You wanted to save me that day.”
“I’ve always tried to do that.”
“Well,” I say. “You did save me.”
“But you’re dead.”
“Am I?”
Dead silence.
Lousy pun intended.
He downs the remainder of his drink and places the glass on the counter.
“You couldn’t possibly have killed me,” I say.
He looks up at me with tear-filled eyes and I realize he’s waiting for the answer, just as I had waited; longed for it, in fact, an answer that never came.
“Matt,” I continue. “You have to be alive for someone to be able to kill you.”

Notes