Me Before You

Room #969. Oh, why did he think this would help solve his problems... that’s the room number he gave me...before he disappeared, of course.

Scene 1

I bolted upright. My hair stuck to my face where my forehead beaded with sweat. I took shaky breaths, attempting to calm my skyrocketing heart rate.

“Remember that time I almost died?” The brunette murmured.

“Which time?”

“I was hanging off of a building, holding on for naught but dear life.”

“It was your grandmother’s garage.” The words spoken with an exasperated eye roll.

“One in the same!! That doesn’t change a thing!!”

“As long as I’m here, I’ll never let anything happen to you. If it comes to that, me before you. Okay?”

“Don’t be silly, Cal.” She spoke, before she fell asleep against his shoulder.

Scene 2

Room #969. I stood outside of the hotel room that housed Callum Holloway. I knew no one else who lived in a hotel, but then again, he was different than anyone else I’ve ever known. The handle turned quietly before opening the door before me. It shut with a click. I was left alone in a lightless room, looking around I realized I didn’t recognize the room I was in. It appeared as any ordinary hotel room on New York’s 5th avenue. Neat linens, plain drapes, a clean carpet.

“Bland” I thought. I noticed my arms subconsciously wrapping around myself, seeking warmth. It was chilly. The window was open. Odd. I walked up the steps to the balcony, hidden as they were, I had made the same journey countless times. I reached the little sitting ledge that was the only thing keeping me from plummeting into the freezing, open air of the humming streets of New York. I watched in silence as the traffic lights from cars and showy distractions of buildings and shops blurred together, appearing as if a three-year-old had stuck his fingers in a jar of paint and wiped them clean on a portrait. My head sank into my arms, and I fell asleep.

Two years later, and there was nothing there. The hotel room had become my haven. I was familiar with even crook and corner. I searched day in and day out, yet nothing brought me closer to him. I pursued the things that screamed his name, that upon sight, made me feel his presence. Some say to not know is a blessing in disguise, though knowledge itself yearns to pierce the unknown.

I searched my brain for pieces, loopholes, that I missed. Room #969. That was what he said. Wasn’t it?

I was full of inexplicable sadness. Is anger towards the world justified when it has taken a person I love away from me? Does nature issue a death penalty to the person who causes death? Or does it favor redemption, leaving the innocent to be lessons learned to the wicked? Even the flowers still bloom for their destroyers, yet why am I unsatisfied? It seems life is an unpredictable story, in which even the dead aren’t forgotten.

Holding up the tattered photograph to the single blinking lightbulb, I studied it. A girl is seen caught off-guard, with a surprised expression painted on her face. It was as if she wasn’t expecting the sudden flash of the camera. Behind her, a boy was found laughing, his laughter directed at her. A pencil was tucked firmly behind his ear. He was always writing something. I flipped the photograph around and in almost ineligible handwriting I read “September 6 2009”

It’s not the hotel. It’s the date. He wanted me to remember the date.

With trembling hands I studied the picture harder... “Where were we that day?” That’s right, we were at Binny’s Breakfast Diner. That place has been closed for years.

Breathing in the frigid air, I lifted my woolen scarf to cover my red tipped nose. I looked up at the once neon-glowing letters that stood at the head of the abandoned restaurant. I found my way to the back door that was providently unlocked… or was it coincidentally? The pink chairs that once seated numbers of different people daily stood at their places grimly. The air smelled of decay. Familiar. I stood amidst the exact place the photograph was taken. Taking steps back, I held up the picture. It fit perfectly with it’s larger life-picture. One table. Two chairs.

All of a sudden, I saw it. It made her heart stop cold, and then, I knew. It all made sense. It all makes sense.

Scene 1

Laying my covers aside, I walked down stairs, alert at every creak and groan of the aging wood. Pouring a cup of tea, I allowed the steam to reach my face.

“Me before you, Ricky Blythe.”

Head in my hands, I sat alone in my dark home. The fine lines of my face crinkling as I reminisced on his words, my silver hair gleaming in the moonlight.

I love him, but he is dead.