How long have I been here?

Long, I think. Very long. Long enough that I'm starting to forget what happened.

Or maybe the rain, or the cold ground, or the sun that refuses to rise is erasing my memory and sense of time. Lying at the end of an dark alley doesn't help, either. I don't usually complain. Most of the time, I can absorb the stuff people throw at me like a sponge. But I guess a lot of things have changed since that moment.

How long have I been here? I stare at a puddle, the gentle drizzle making ripples across its surface. One, two, three, four...

Eleven. Somewhere, a bell tower chimes eleven times.

It was his fault.

I didn't see this coming. During the days and weeks and months leading up to it, everything seemed normal. He was a normal guy doing normal things. He volunteered at the local hospital, hung out with his friends, and even made it into the school swim team—something he had always dreamed of.

And then there were the not-so-good times. The nights that his parents fought and argued. The days where his friends would avoid talking with him. And the crying. Lots of crying.

I used to comfort him. Whenever he needed someone to understand, someone to be with, I was there.

And yet he left me. Why?

I try to tell myself that the answer is simple. In a busy city in a busy world, no one has the time to worry about others. Society moves at its own pace, and whether I decide to move on or get left behind is my problem.

A man's sudden laughter startles me. It takes me a few moments to realize it must be coming from the alleyway opening. I can't see him, partly because I don't want to, and partly because despite the opening it's still somehow pitch-dark here. Instead, I focus on the sounds of footsteps sloshing by in the rain, the traffic noise and the hum of the city as life goes on.

It seems so far away. Life, I mean. When was the last time I did something normal? Taking walks around the city at night, diving into a pool and competing against my teammates...It's all gone now.

But was that even my life? Or was that his life? Or both?

My head hurts, and this uncomfortable position isn't helping, but moving takes more effort than it's worth. Don't overthink it, I tell myself. We both knew he was always the one in control, anyway. His decisions and his thoughts mattered, while mine were less significant. That's just how it was.

He used to love sketching. Both of us did, actually. He would pick the scenery, perhaps a park or a piece of urban sprawl, and we'd sit under a tree. I'd make the skeletons, the rough base, then he'd fill in with the finer details. Sometimes he drew people. A little girl feeding a bird. A man reading the morning newspaper with his legs crossed. Normal people doing normal things. Though he added other details too. Stuff that didn't make sense, like having the bird's shadow in the shape of a vulture, or giving the man milky white eyes that were half hidden beneath his fedora.

I wonder what he would think of this scene. A boy lying on the ground in a dark alley, isolated from the rest of the world. Perhaps he would focus on the rain, and the way it seems to touch everything but me. Or maybe he'd shade most of my face in a way that looks like I'm crying.

If it were up to me, I would draw what I see in front of me. No symbolism, no artistic alterations. Just stark reality. Unlike him, I don't need to hide from the facts.

I once told him that. He said I was heartless.

But can I really be blamed? All I did was look out for him. I made sure that he'd avoid the wrong people so he wouldn't get hurt. I reminded him to put himself before others. I did the things that he was too afraid to do, like acknowledge the truth that nobody really liked him.

Maybe that was what made him snap. The truth.

Thinking hurts. Everything hurts.

But am I wrong to complain? Does it make me foolish to still care about him? Does it make me selfish to think about what I've been through, and not him?

I wish somebody would answer me. It's all so silent.

My vision blurs, and tears begin to slide sideways down my face. At least, I think they're my tears and not his, because I'm not sure of anything anymore. They reach the ground and join the raindrops that have begun to fall faster, harder.

Now that he's gone, there's nothing to do but lie here and wait. Soon, somebody will find me—or not. For some reason I keep forgetting that people don't care about each other. Maybe they thought the gunshot wouldn't be worth checking out.

I stare at the slick, crimson liquid that's spilling from my head and pooling onto the ground. A pistol sits a few feet away from my hand. His pistol.

I remember now. I remember, so vividly the moment he put the gun to our head and ended our life without so much as an explanation, an apology, a goodbye. I remember crying for help before he tightened our vocal cords and made us blend into the night. As his soul faded away, I remember the feeling of warmth being steadily drained from me, like the world was glad to let us go. Just like he was glad to leave me behind.

I wonder if he knew.

I wonder if he planned this.

I wonder if he abandoned me, his body, so I would know what it feels like to be alone.