Keep Breathing

He stands on his doorstep, staring out into the rainy street, the world washed over in gray. He could be doing a million different things at that moment, but instead he does nothing. He simply stares, his fingers growing numb. In his hands is a letter, the ripped envelope in his left and a crumpled piece of parchment in his right. Rain drizzles onto his bare feet and stains the back of his white t-shirt with little dots. He could go inside and get himself a cup of coffee, warm up. But he does not. He is frozen.

An over whelming sadness has enveloped his body, though he does not shed a single tear. Instead he breathes, in and out, his fingers tightening slightly around the piece of paper.

The day had started out rainy, water pattering on the window, a small figure curled under thick blankets, a messy head of dark hair. But the rain was alright. He could see it out the large bay window in the bedroom as he awoke, specks of water littering the glass. Rain was okay; it meant the world was still turning. It meant the sun was still coming up and the moon was still setting. It meant the lilies in the garden would still bloom and the Morning Doves that nested in the large oak outside would still fly. It meant he was alive.

But the world does not feel as if it is turning at that moment in time, as he stands still as a statue on his porch, staring out into the rain. It feels as if everything has stopped. The sun will not set, the moon will not rise. The flowers won't bloom and the birds won't fly. He doesn't feel alive. Yet he keeps breathing.

The rain hadn't bothered him, his bare feet cold on the hardwood floor as he slid out of bed. The room was gray, just as it was outside, and he didn't bother to turn on the light. He didn't bother to shut the door after he left the room, or to make his bed. He didn't bother over anything, because it was a rainy sort of day. The kitchen was freezing, the heating bill long overdue. The slick white tile turned the bottoms of his bare feet numb as he bustled around turning on the coffee maker and absent mindedly pulling out two mugs instead of one. He frowned at the mugs when he counted them, slipping the extra back into the cupboard and reminding himself that his love would be home soon.

Soon.

Or never.

Now it was never.

Still standing on the porch, he feels stupid for telling himself such reassuring words. They're hogwash now. Nothing matters anymore. Now that second cup will never make its way onto the counter again, and nothing matters. Because how can the world keep turning without the second cup? Without the second person to sit on the counter in the kitchen with him and drink black coffee from cracking mugs? Without someone to kiss his cheek and fix his tie? Without someone to sing show tunes with while making burnt pancakes and watching Buffy re-runs? Without someone to wake up with him at noon on Sundays so they could waste the day away lying in bed and simply being? How in the world can he keep breathing without that second cup?

All the curtains in the house were open, all of the light bulbs off. Money was tight, his wallet empty. He didn't absolutely need the lights. The light from outside worked well enough, sending in thick shafts of a gray hazy gloom. He had smiled to himself as he passed the front window, seeing the mail man driving away from the black mail box up front. The front door swung, his bare feet stepping out onto the damp porch, the awning protecting him from the rain. The air was chilly, goose bumps popping up all over his arms, his thin t-shirt and sweatpants not doing much against the cold. The mailbox seemed a million miles away, the journey down the walk way long and treacherous. But the simple thought of a letter from a certain someone made his heart thump in his chest and butterflies explode in the bottom of his stomach.

The butterflies are gone now, of course. Now it feels as though nails are being hammered into every part of his body, the biggest of them drilling into his heart. He could die at that very moment but he wouldn't mind because nothing matters anymore. The road out front is dead, no cars, no people. He waits for something, anything. For the mail man to come back and say the letter was a mistake. For his eyes to flutter open again and have the day start over, make this all a dream. Have him wake up and see a certain someone standing at the foot of his bed. Have him laugh at how silly this is. Have him be able to breathe without choking on every breath.

Waiting wasn't good for him a minute ago, the mail box still full, butterflies still armed and ready. He had made a mad dash for the end of the drive way, spinning on his bare heel and grabbing the front of the box, pulling it open. Inside were five envelopes, which he grabbed, and then ran back to the porch. By the time he made it back to the safety of the awning his back was littered with water, his hair drenched, his feet frozen, and his chest heaving for air. He stood there, gasping, and flipping through the envelopes. Mortgage. He tossed it behind him. Letter from the Bank of America. Tossed it. Advertisement for a cooking company. Garbage. Letter from Nana. Save it for later. The last envelope on the bottom of the pile was square and white, the US Air Force seal printed on the back.

The happiness overwhelmed him at that moment. It was so much to handle that he squealed with joy, jumping up and down. He couldn't open it fast enough, slipping his pinky under the flap and tearing it away. Out came a folded up piece of paper, which he opened and scanned over, the biggest smile on his face.

The smile slowly fell.

He stopped breathing for moment, reading the letter over and over just to make sure he hadn't misunderstood what it said.

He didn't drop it, he couldn't drop it. It was the only thing that could tell him that this real. That this whole thing wasn't a dream. Or a nightmare. He really wished it was.

And now, standing on the porch step, letter in hand, he finally lets the tears come. It's only a few, the little beads of water rolling over the sides of his cheeks. He can't breathe, he can't speak, he can't even think straight.

The tears fall. They fall in almost slow motion, his vision blurred as he watches them, three of them, tumble down onto the paper in his hand.

One lands smack dab in between the words sincerely and sorry.

One lands atop the word deceased.

And the last one lands on top of the bolded name. Corporal Gerard Way.

It's sickening how coincidence works.

He barely finds enough will power to go inside. The letter doesn't leave his hands until he reaches the bedroom, the parchment falling to the floor and landing gently on the cold hardwood. The bed sheets are still warm as he lies down, and for a moment he lets himself pretend that nothing's happened yet. That he never really left his bed. That the letter didn't even exist. But pretending can only last so long. If pretending didn't work for all of the cold nights that he had slept alone, all of the bleak mornings that he had trudged through by himself, then why should it work now?

He finally gets his lungs to breath, his chest to move, and he lets out a gasp, choking on his insides, tears spilling out of his eyes. He lies, spread out on his back, his face turning red and puffy from crying. Outside the world keeps turning. The sun will still set, the moon will still rise. The flowers will bloom and the birds will fly. In the kitchen a full cup of coffee sits on the counter, a second, empty one lying lonely in the cabinet. Buffy re-runs play on mute to a silent living room, and the echoes of old show tunes and the distant smell of burning pancakes are nothing but memories.

Another man down and the world moves on.

And all he can do is keep breathing.