"The Pallbearer"

No one was in the house when I unlocked the door. Only a note on the refrigerator caught my attention as I grabbed a SURGE drink.

At Choir Practice Tonight

was the note's only line. My parents are very active members in the church, especially the adult choir. Practice tonight meant that there would be a concert tomorrow and that I'd have to go, wearing my nicest clothing. Something I'd look forward to like anyone would a root canal.

I checked the answer machine in the living room. There was only one, from Dylan, my best friend. "Alex, you said you'd be waiting after school. You know I wanted to walk with you-" the voice sounded disappointed, somehow disconnected.

I cursed at myself for forgetting, and breaking another promise. The best thing I could do nw was to go see him at his house, and show him how sorry I was. Maybe he just needs a cigarette, I thought.

Dylan had always been quiet, liked by all my other friends. We all would smoke together at lunch. He'd always appear goth, carrying a knife. Never cared about who saw it. He would even taunt a school security officer with it, behind their backs of course.

I picked the phone and speed dialed his number: the busy signal bleeped back at me. Busy. That's good. It meant he wa s okay. I had always had the fear that he would do something to hurt someone, or even himself.

I rode my bike to his house, not too far from mine. His house was a dump. An old shack, even older dump. Rotten and wordn, I always marveled to see it still standing after a storm. Well, maybe it isn't that old.

His father's old yellow toyota pick-up wasn't in the driveway. Dylan was alone. I hate to say that I was his only friend, a true companion, but it's true. That is why he would be alone, you see.

I went directly through the front door; we would never knock on each other's doors. The place smelled like old cigarette trays and booze. That combo, plus the mustiness, made the room's air pungent. The while house was an appearance that would fit its outside, and had an appearance that would fit tits outside, and had an attitude that was dark and would proclaim it betrothed to remain that way.

My eyes fell on the phone, receiver off the hook. It dangled three like a soul, and I could hear the automatic repeating voice of the operator.

I hurried myself to where Dylan's room would be, the only real room in the house. But I only felt as it I were in a dream state, typical dream run and I couldn't tell how my body was moving itself.

His door was shut, I pressed my wear against its beaten surface. Silence. That wasn't good. He wa never that quiet at home, what with his Metallica and all.

I pushed against the door, knowing that it would be stubborn at first. "Dylan." I spoke too quietly. "Dylan?"

The door flung open on it old hinges. I first saw him laying on his bed, face up. Then I realized that his arms were covered with blood. They were limp and gashed. He was dead.

I spat out an angry curse and panicked. "No, this can't be, no-" but it was true. I heard the door shut itself behind me. I looked at it, and there was a manila envelope on the door, kept in place by a knife. Most likely the very knife that he had killed himself with.

I didn't want to look at the contents. It was a suicide note. I knew it. My stomach turned at the image of him. "Dylan!" I shouted, and it seemed like a delayed reaction of my voice. I wanted to do something anything besides hope and even pray that it was all just a joke. Maybe his pulse? no! what do I do? No, I won't call the police. No parents- no one.

The who? what now? If no one, there had to be someone... thoughts, heart, voiced raced throughout every being of me. Calm calm calm calm calm... have to stay calm. Get calm first...

I looked back to the envelope. The door. Envelope his gashes the door the knife blood gashes death dead died suicide. I flung the door open ignoring the fact that the envelope had my name written neatly and rather large at the top. Just my name, Alex.

I didn't want to continue looking at the blood on that knife.

On my bustled way through the front door, I encountered his father with his mopy, pothead-drooping-beer-guzlling-face.

I didn't want to say anything to him. He'd find out on his own. I couldn't say anything. I hadn't discovered my throat was tightened until later that night.

One on my bike an d heading down the driveway, i heard his voice. His father's voice calling his name. Won't get a response, there, buddy... I could never have been far enough away from that house to hear his father's scream. Maybe it was just in my imagination. Maybe it was mine... but I did hear it.

The true weather for May was showing the day of Dylan's funeral. Quit a contrast compared to the clothing worn and the faces of friends and a very unidentifiable people who must have been relative, or distant relatives. I knew I wasn't the only one to be suffering in the heat. Wearing my black suit that was bought just for these kind of occasions made me think that I never wanted to attend another "occasion" like this again.

I was fighting off slight vertigo while the Pastor talking, Steve Allen, recommend by my parents to Dylan's father, talked and blabbered away about death, ashes and a Valley of Shadows. I moved further away from the crowd after I and the other pallbearers sat down the coffin. The Youth Pastor, Bob Peterson, only moved close to me.

My parents had helped a lot with Dylan's grieving father, helped arrange the funeral and whatever else would happen after the funeral. It was hard to tell what he was thinking as he stood there, stiffly. He was probably more dead spiritually than he looked physically. At least he worse a nice suit, that was probably bought just recently for this "occasion". Would he notice his drinking problem or drown his new sorrows even more?

My mind surfed through questions and thoughts, demands and arguments. Arguing with myself, now that was desperate for something. Anything. And for probably the millionth time since I got home that day I discovered him dead, I asked almost out loud "How could God let this happen?"

A hand waved in front of my face. It was Bob Peterson's. The funeral was over, people were leaving. No one was around anymore.

"Are you going to be all right? Alex?"

I didn't want to talk to him, nor anyone else. Though I was surprised that he knew my name, I wasn't too surprised though. I then notice my parents a ways away, looking back once at us. They probably wanted me to talk about that Dylan had done. I let my hands cover my eyes, I didn't want to talk to anyone. I hadn't before, I wouldn't later.

"Your parents are concerned about you, Alex."

Screw them... I thought, slightly wondering what had made me think something like that about my parent. My parents who clearly loved me and wanted the best for me. Not letting me smoke or drink or not even doing either one themselves.

"They say you barely talk. And that you haven't eaten much. he paused, "Alex, I know you just lost someone close to you, you need to talk about it with someone."

I went to a nearby tree with a huge circumference. I leaned against it as I produced Dylan's envelop from inside my suit pocket. It has remained un opened. I stared at the name on it, and poked a little at the hole the knife had left in it. Suicide note, was all I could think. Suicide note Suicide note Suicide note.

Bob patted my shoulder, a sure sign of departure.

"Don't leave." I almost yelled after him. I was shocked, confused. Why have hi stay? I need time... no, you've had your time for 4 days...

"I don't know what's in it, yet." Maybe I was lying. But I couldn't be for sure. The envelope was thick. It could be a suicide note.

I finally took firm hold with one hand, grabbed a corner with the other and ripped the top off. I dumped the contents into the grass and stared. There were folded white papers. And a photo.

The photo, I had forgotten about- we were at the beach, buried neck high in sand. In the picture we were probably 8 or 10.

Then, I remembered that it was my first trip the the beach. He claimed he had visited it numerous times (but 8 or 10 year olds don't use those words, do they?) and on our long drive to the Oregon coast, he kept trying to describe the sand dunes. Nothing he could have ever, with any amount of words, could have prepared me for the size of the dunes, and how the water would be. I hadn't remembered what he said about the water. My ears were then filled with the sounds of the waves, and his voice. His little-boy, pre-puberty voice. He had a passion for the beach, the sea and any relating objects. I think I somehow understood now that he had some kind of connection with it all.

On the papers were neatly typed various poems and thoughts. They were mostly ocean oriented, and one explained the sea so vividly and so real to me, I felt as if I had been right back there, in the car heading toward the Pacific coast.

And then there was the-suicide?-note... No, it was in my handwriting. it was a note I had written him dated just over a year ago. "It's a letter from me that he kept.. I told the air, forgetting Bob's requested presence. He gave it back..." I paused to swallow and read the note out loud, faintly remembering what it would say. "'Dylan, I haven't been able to talk to you for while, but I wanted to tell you that you should stand up for yourself. Get cleaned up. You're a great person. I wish your dad could see that beyond his anger, his drunkenness and stupidity. Signed by me."

I hadn't noticed my sudden talking spurt. "He took my advice and got a beaten, but it was the last time. They got closer, I don't know how. And I think his depression grew worse-"

"Depression?" Bob spoke up.

"Yeah, probably manic. I also saw the signs that he wanted to-to-" I gestured toward the fresh gave and he nodded. "But, maybe I wasn't sure, I denied them.. I ignored them-"

"It's not your fault"

"It probably is." I refused to believe that it hadn't been my wrong doing.

"It's not your fault."

I look at him. His eyes as stern as his voice went into me. I nodded, but still denied. He saw this in me.

"It's not your fault."

"I know."

"It's not your fault"

I know!" I wanted to shout at him and push him away, him who insists this, this... he who doesn't know a thing about me and my friendships, especially with Dylan.

"ALex. Really, it's not your fault."

My eyes started to sting. I stood, wanting to escape humility of crying in front of this Youth Pastor. When I tried to walk opposite him, he only stopped, turned me and said strongly those words again, shaking me gently with each word for emphasis.

"It's not your fault"

And then, I knew. Then, I let myself cry and be soothed.