I Should've Been There

“What?” Reilly barked. Mossy green eyes narrowed and burning, glowered directly into Kiran’s. 

“I should’ve been there, Reilly.” He repeated weakly, failing to ignore the shiver that trailed down his spine. Their gaze was cold. It hadn’t been like that before. After two months, the deep, ugly bruise hadn’t faded from their right eye. He felt sick every time he looked at them.

“What would you have even done?” Reilly demanded, “What the fuck would you have even done that we didn’t already try?” Their voice faltered, either from anger or from the fact that they still suffered damage done to their vocal cords. 

“I-I don’t know. Something. I could’ve helped you!” Kiran said. He gestured desperately from himself to Reilly. He felt the lump in his throat was nearly suffocating. Tears welled up in his eyes, but they weren’t his to shed. He didn’t deserve it. “I could’ve helped them.” He coughed, moving his arm across the graves that lay before him and his friend. 

Lexie Park, Kassidy Jane Hughes, Colt Torres, Dave Daniels, Holly Blue Matthews, and Charlie Prescott all should’ve started their junior year with Kiran Savalani and Reilly Murphy but instead lay side-by-side with Chestnut Creek’s Cemetary.

               “Yeah. You could’ve, but you didn’t. You don’t get to feel sorry.” 

               “Reilly, that’s not fair.”

               “Not fair? You wanna know what’s not fair?” They challenged, finally tearing their gaze away from their friend. White-knuckled fists gripping their jeans. “Not fair is everyone waiting for you to break. Treating you like some fucking antique doll. Telling you they’re sorry. Asking if it hurts. Asking if I’ll have scars. Having to watch our friends get torn to fucking shreds like those monsters were a greedy brat on Christmas. That’s. Not. Fair.” Reilly’s legs gave out from under them, their body wracked with choked sobs. One leg awkwardly splayed out, leaving her unable to properly kneel in the dewy grass and dead flower petals resting six feet above Colt’s coffin.

               And Kiran, perfectly healthy, just stands there. He let the tears fall, cursing under his breath. “Reilly…”

               “Don’t. I’m sick and tired of pity.”

               “It’s not pity.”

               “Then what is it?”

               “I don’t know.” He states plainly. After several minutes of silence, he finds the courage to sit down and wrap his arms around his scarred friend. Without hesitation, they bury their head in his neck and clutch the fabric of his shirt with a strength he nearly forgot they had. They sat there like that for some time, not bothering to move, enjoying the presence of life, but not for the same reasons, “I don’t know what to do. I left. And you stayed.”

               “We all stayed.” Reilly reminded him. They adjusted their position carefully, all too aware of what limbs they could and could not move. Kiran moves to help, but they push him away. He swallows hard, feeling the icy wall separating them once more.

               “I didn’t have a choice,” He said, “And god, I fucking wish I did now.” He ripped up the grass, eyes turned away, and body following suit, he inched himself away from Reilly.

               “What do you mean?” Reilly questioned.

               “I wish I could go back to before all this shit went down. Take you guys with me or or tell me to stay. I don’t know what. I just want to go back, and maybe you’d all be fine.” The words poured out of Kiran’s mouth before he could really think of them, “Don’t you?”

               “I don’t.” Reilly’s words sucked the air out of Kiran’s lungs. Some sickening mixture of shock and horror as the impact of their conversation hit him like a semi. The nausea came over him in a wave, but as soon as it disappeared, anger rose from his stomach rather than vomit.

               “How could you not?” He shouted, “After everything you’ve been through, how could you not want them back.” Kiran jumped to his feet. Looking down at Reilly.

               His friend remained on the ground, their hands running over their bandaged hip with a blank expression. He wanted them to be enraged at him or for their friends, but they weren’t. Not anymore. Whatever anger they had earlier faded and left something worse. Their expression was utterly dull and lifeless. The marks against the pallor of their skin gave Reilly made him think of Holly Blue, the only one who had an open casket.

               “I want them back more than anything, but I won’t change the past,” Reilly said, their remaining cinders extinguished, “I know no one wants me to admit this, especially not you, but what happened happened. Now I have to live with it.”

               “If we could go back, we could save everyone,” Kiran spoke as if this was a real option, but it wasn’t. He knew it, and Reilly knew it.

               “Or we could all die. Give those true crime podcasts what they really want,” Reilly laughed with no humor, “The story’s not that good cause I lived.”

               “You don’t mean that.”

               “I really do mean it. These are my scars to bear, Kiran. My guilt, too. Not yours.” Another reminder from the one who lived through the experience Kiran wanted nothing more than to erase, “You got lucky with your grandma dying. You left camp before they found us.”

               Kiran snapped back to Reilly, taking in her bemused expression. They glanced back over to him, still seemingly lifeless save for that singular trace of emotion tugging at their lips, “I could’ve said no.” 

               “I got lucky, too, so don’t take it personally. They found me with enough time to sew me back together again. All in one piece, too.” Reilly pushed themselves off the ground, groaning with effort. They looked at Kiran half-standing. In his mind, he knew they expected a hand, but Kiran couldn’t reach out. They brought themselves to their full height, “I think about the choices I made and the choices I’m still making. I want nothing more than to forget this pain, but someone had to live with it.”

               “It’s just not fair.” Kiran cried, not even feeling like they were having the same conversation anymore. The anger inside him gnawed at his bleeding heart.

               “It’s not.” Reilly agreed.

               “Why wouldn’t you go back?” He needed to know.

               “There’s no point,” Reilly turned away from him, “I wanted to in the beginning when I woke up in that hospital with overwhelming pain and lackluster room service, but over time, I realized these are my scars and my guilt to bear, Kiran, not yours.” They walked away with no goodbye.

               Kiran didn’t chase after them or even reach for them. His anger, guilt, sadness, and about 15 other emotions he didn’t know he had all fought for control. Paralyzed by undeserved survivor’s guilt as he stood above his friends, the only thing he could do was watch the real survivor disappear with blurred vision.

               “I want to go back.” He wished quietly. Only the dead could hear his voice, but corpses don’t grant wishes.