Companion

How is it at all conceivable that I am where I currently reside at this moment? And without much detail, I can assure you that this is neither a pleasant place, nor one which I can leave under my own free will. Not only am I in such a hideous and un-named place but whom I am sitting adjacent of makes my predicament all the worse. He is not at all a bad individual (Although some would disagree) he just has an uncanny ability to pull emotion from my innards, that I'd rather not surface.

The dwelling is small and dank, the company is unwelcome and my person is sore and aching and tired. And now, on top of all things, there is an uncomfortable silence, not that I wish my companion to talk, on the contrary, I am sure any topic he were to bring up would be most disagreeable. Further more, since the water supply is low, in fact non-existent, its probably best we should conserve our voices, already hoarse from several days of unanswered help calls.

It has been nine days by my calculation, although I can't be sure, and the air is growing thick and bothersome. It seemed to be light spring when I entered the dwelling but seemingly instantaneously summer has sprung full-fledged. My companion doesn't seem to notice this immense heat, he is as cool as ever, positively cold.

He paces now, or at least the his tired equivalent of the activity, stumbling about, in the small space that would be our den, were this a flat. Of course this isn't a flat, this a minute hole of a tenement and the boy has stepped on my foot twice!

I am feeling a very strong urge to tackle this boy, perhaps hold his head under a pillow, supposing I had a pillow, which I lack. Lucky him.

Finally, he ceases from pure exhaustion, collapsing next to me. I don't think he means to be so close, but foodless days have drained him and his body is no longer obeys such commands as: move.

Exhausted myself, I try to let go of my anger for this tempestuous individual, letting my body cup his in an unwarlike gesture. I think he appreciates it, even if he doesn't confirm it.

It has been at long debate to me why I do the things I do, perhaps I'll never know. But whether it was for his comfort or mine, I acted.

I leaned forward, my chin resting on his snowy blond hair, a child's hair, much too innocent for the boy before me. He's no older than me and yet he looks, to me, but a large child. Placing one hand on his shoulder and one around his torso, I pull him close to me. And gently whisper to him that it will be fine, like a mother, I comfort him. The realization of death, between us, is too strong to ignore now.

He makes a sound, a slight whimper, I think. I don't believe anyone's ever touched him this way; with empathy, in a genuinely comforting and un-self- centered manner. He feels rigid under my grasp, uncomfortable. At last, stroking his feathery hair and whispering softly, I rock slightly, pulling him with me; swaying along with him in cradle fashion. My natural instincts take over completely and I began to sing to him. A million lullabies, all jumbled together, a sweet, light song never to be written. And he relaxes.

I think I imagine a coo, like a small child and I think of the children I will never have because I will die here, as will he. My scorched throat protests its song and my eyes fill with selfish tears, tears that I refuse to release.

I forget about him, the man-child in my arms, my peer, which I play mother bear to. My body takes auto pilot and my brain expanses. All the things I will never do, never have, never see, or experience. How short and unfurling a life. And him.

I think of him. Everything he will not have. I stop the motion of rocking now, sinking back into my own skin. My grin loosens and he pulls from my arms, his face coming level with my own. He concentrates on my angst-ridden expression, my tears now flowing freely down my cheeks. My face hot with emotion, I look into his eyes and realize he too is crying, soft weak tears, barely visible in the hot light.

He has thought with me, followed my realizations for the future. But his tears aren't that of grief, as mine. They are of gratitude. For me, my kindness, a gentle word or gesture in the end, that he could never before receive. No, for death itself. The release, the end. He understands this long before I, with his year came wisdom I think, maybe not just his year, but his life. A life perhaps not as simple as I had taken it for.

We stare at each other; drink in the pure emotion that seeps from both of us, through our pores. And he leans forward and gently presses his lips to mine. A kiss. Not of passion or romance, but comfort, love in it's purest from. Between two beings, regardless of sex, or lust, or need. But the love that simple exists because we do, the love that is there because one breathes and is alive.

As are lips break, my eyes close, unable to sustain his stare, the heat means nothing and I lean forward into his waiting embrace. I open my eyes as we lay down together and do something I've never managed in all my few years; I relax, completely and totally. And closing my eyes one final time, I give into it, the waiting unknown, the rest, peace. And there we lay, intertwined, for eternity, or till our bones turn to dust. In death we'd found something we couldn't in life......a companion.