When Sam Quell was born, everyone was happy.

I was there at the hospital with John, waiting to hear any scrap of news about 

Mrs. Quell and how it was going and were there any complications and everything. Anything. I was tense because John was tense, because he knew and I knew that last time, she never got as far as the hospital. And now, we were all going to make damn well sure that it got so much further.

The look on John’s face when he finally saw his baby brother was… 

indescribable. It was like the sun had erupted inside him and beams of it were showering outwards from him. When he held that tiny thing in his arms, it was like the whole world disappeared and it was just the two of them, completely present in the moment.

And now he’s gone. Forever.

His mother had hardly been able to form coherent sentences over the phone. At first, I had wondered why she would call me personally so soon after, and then I remembered.

John.

She knew that I was near him and, despite everything, she knew someone had to be there for him. And that someone was me.

John might not be the best person I knew, but it still held true that we had once been friends, and he must be in… a lot of pain now.

Which was why I find myself standing outside his door, soaking wet after having run here in the pouring rain.

His mother had always said how fragile John was, how easily affected. I hadn’t really taken that seriously lately— I’d just taken it as a way of excusing John’s actions— but now I was remembering all those times I’d found John, crying, hurting, and that one time he had threatened doing something unthinkable.

Even the thought of that had put enough fear into me to come straight here without regard for anything else, just John. The same John who had once made me consider doing that very thing.

I rapped on the door.

No answer.

Again.

Nothing.

Maybe he’s not home. But then I hear a small noise, almost inaudible, coming through the door. I put my ear to the door and listen:

skritchskirtchskritch

It sounds like… a pen scratching paper. Writing. What could he be writing?

Carefully, I reach for the handle and turn it. To my surprise, there’s no resistance— the door creaks slowly open.

Inside, it’s dark.

I step inside, and almost slip— there are papers strewn all over the floor. As my eyes adjust to the light, I can see that the whole room is a mess: pages everywhere, ripped straight from the spine of a book, it seems like. I pick one of them up. The header reads:

FRANKENSTEIN

OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS

Why would he tear this up? Isn’t it still his favourite book? I drop the page and turn the corner. To my relief, John is sitting at his desk, writing.

“John?” My voice is cautious and soft— who knows what state he must be in?

He doesn’t look up, just keeps writing.

skritchskritchskritch

“John!”

He stops, and lifts up his head, still not turning around. I place my hand on his shoulder, trying to comfort him.

“John, listen, I—”

And that’s it.

He turns.

But what I see is something that will continue to haunt me, something I couldn’t have expected. His cheeks, marked by countless tear tracks, look raw from crying, and his eyes are red and swollen. But somehow, they’re bulging, the red veins darting crazily around the whites of his eyes like strangling vines. And his face, his whole face is distorted by a massive, insane grin, ear to ear, showing too many teeth, gleaming in the sparse light.

I stumble backwards— what was that? Was that really John? I close my eyes and open them again, and his face is back to normal; still all the signs of sadness and tears, but his eyes are okay again.

And his smile is gone.

Did I imagine that? I wonder, momentarily forgetting why I’m there.

Then, John brings the whole awful thing crashing down again.

“So… I guess you heard, huh?”

I nod. I want to say something, but no words seem right. He sighs and smiles: just a normal, sad smile this time.

“It was my mom, wasn’t it? She wanted you to check up on me, I bet. That was nice of her.”

He zones out for a second, staring out into empty space. There’s something in his eyes so indescribably sad I can’t even look at them. As suddenly as he left, he’s back again.

“Sorry about that. I’ll be all right. You didn’t have to come anyway. Everything’s fine.”

In that second, I regain my voice.

“Fine? How can you say that?! Just look at this place! Look at yourself! Nothing is fine!”

It’s only as the anger fades and I release my fists do I realize tears are running down my face. He looks as surprised as I am. Without hesitation, he gets up and races toward me, only just catching me as I lose my footing and fall. We both collapse to the ground, me sobbing so hard I think my eyes are gonna fall out, and him just holding me, quietly.

This is so pathetic. It was his brother that died, not mine, and he’s the one comforting me. I hate it. I hate myself, because even in this miserable state, even with what happened, there’s still a part of me that doesn’t feel bad for him. A part of me that thinks, Good. He deserves it.

The self-loathing fills my soul, cracking it, making me sick, increasing my pain exponentially.

Which is good.

Because I deserve it.