An Eternity With You

How could you not think it’s beautiful? The afternoon sun reflecting off the pale stone walls. Although, it was probably a little too bright for your bleak blue eyes. How did you not think it was beautiful? Everyday you walked through the courtyard where the sounds of voices danced and bounced off the walls. Everyday your feet stepped on these slick, smooth stones. How were you not enthralled by the galaxy encapsulated by each stepping stone? After every long night, you stepped into the old creaky elevator. How were you not comforted by the quiet hum of the ancient motors? 

Passing through the halls where you walked, laughed with your friends, crammed for an exam. My heart aches, each beat echoing in my ears, taunting me with the silence with which you’ve left me. My hands shake and my limbs grow heavy as I push the door open and step gingerly into your room. Your old room. I stop, mid-step, frozen. If I hadn’t known, I would’ve thought someone was still living here or that I had perhaps walked into the wrong room. Your bed is to my right, the sheets pulled back. Never in the many years I’ve known you have you made your bed, even from the grave your carelessness irritates me. The rest of your room is absolutely atrocious. Clothes, presumably dirty, stuffed in every possible corner. Old exams and homework, presumably half-completed, crumpled and tossed, forgotten. 

I step further into the room, treading lightly as if every step I take discounts the integrity of your palpable presence that I feel lingering like a thick fog, held captive by this small space. I wade through the disaster of your room to your desk on the far wall. Your desk. The only space in your room that represents some form of organization. An oasis amidst the chaos of your ever-evolving life. My fingertips graze the back of the chair. The chair where you sat everyday, studying, writing, calling me. 

Your laptop sits, plugged in and open. A few notebooks and a journal are stacked in the corner. Beside your laptop is a piece of paper and a pen. The paper reads, “Dear Madeline, I’ve been wanting to”. I stare at the page, where your distinguishable handwriting stops mid-thought. My breath quickens and blood rushes to my head. You were writing me a letter. I reread my name over and over, though my vision is blurry and my head is spinning. I stare at the words on the page, the letters swirling and agitated. The e’s of my name are tormenting me, how you write them is so odd, oddly flat and stout. They’re mocking me, knowing that they have been graced by your touch whereas I have not been in months, nor will I be ever again. 

I abruptly flip the page over allowing the blood to drain from my head and some sense be returned to my psychoanalytic brain. I gently close your laptop. Maybe one day I’ll sift through your files and read the stories you promised you would let me read once they were finished. Maybe one day it’ll give me some insight into why you would do this, why you couldn’t wait one short month to return home, why you couldn’t find the beauty in this life. 

I walk over to your window, where the afternoon sun has begun to set beyond the steeple of the church. Your window looks out into the courtyard; how were you not intrigued by the commotion that frequented this courtyard, the daily lives of students that will never have the pleasure of knowing you? It’s quiet now though, not a soul passes through the yard.

I make my way down the four flights of stairs from your room to the courtyard. The scuffs of my sneakers ricochet through the silent stairwell, the noise a temporary refuge from the solitude of my thoughts. It makes me wonder, is this how you felt? In a bubble of sullenness, floating alone through a sea of your passionate and eager peers? 

I push the huge wooden stairwell door open. A priest is passing through the courtyard, his head is ducked and in his right hand he holds a bible. I quicken my pace to catch up to him.

“Hola,” My voice carries through the quiet courtyard although I had hardly spoken above a whisper. The priest turns around seemingly startled by my sudden company. He responds in Spanish. I don’t catch a single word. 

“No… hablo español.” I stammer, hoping the only person I’ve come across knows at least some English. 

“Vale, English?” 

“Yes,” I stare at him for a moment. There is so much I want to say, so much I want to ask. This priest is my only opportunity to speak to someone who may have known you, who may have seen you in your last days on this Earth. How do I tell him, how do I explain to him the value that this interaction has to me, that anything he knows about you could shed some light on this dark mystery of yours.

“Do you know… did you know Elijah? Elijah Vollaro?” My voice shakes; speaking your name feels like swallowing a knife. It is now the priest’s turn to stare at me. His expression changes, his brows pull together and every wrinkle on the old man’s face becomes apparent. 

“Come, walk.” He places a hand on my shoulder and guides me to walk with him. “I know Elijah well,” We continue to cross the courtyard, the gravel crunching under our feet. “He came to the church often, we spoke frequently, especially these past few weeks.” His accent is thick and he speaks slowly, deliberately choosing each word.

“He never mentioned that he went to church. He was never very religious.” 

“Ah, he came often to speak with me, to find comfort in Dios. It is common to seek guidance when one is struggling, though one isn’t religious.” The priest pulls open a large wooden door and gestures me through. The church is dark and empty, a cavern tucked away in the corner of your school. We walk to the front row of pews and sit. 

“When was the last time you spoke to him? Do you know he… he…” I struggle to finish my question and I find my eyes fixed on Jesus hanging from a cross at the altar. 

“Yes,” The priest answers, his voice low and ribboned with grief. “I was the one who found him.” My head snaps to the priest, whose eyes are cast down and hands clutch the bible tightly to his chest. “He came to talk to me, the night before. For a while he came to talk, needing help. He said he felt alone, he was always very tired.” The priest relaxes his grip on the bible and turns his face to look at me. His eyes are sad and I can hear the misery dripping off of each word he speaks. “The night before though, he was different.”

“How so?” Tears begin to well in my eyes and I fix my gaze once more on Jesus. 

“He seemed… distracted, preoccupied. And said many times that he wanted everything to be different. He said he wished he could do it all again.” Time moves in slow motion. I can feel my heart dropping through the empty cavity of my chest, passing every rib and getting scraped and shredded along the way. The night before, your last night here on this Earth, your mind was still haunted by that conversation we had. For the four months since we had last seen each other, had that conversation been lurking in your brain replaying over and over, as it had in mine? Is that why you did this to yourself, was the weight of us too much for you? Did our final conversation drive you to this desperation?

“Is that…all?” I can’t prevent my voice from shaking or the tears from streaming down my face. My gaze stays anchored on Jesus, his long hair like a curtain over his face shielding him from prying eyes. 

“I asked, many times, what he meant. What did he want to be different, what could we change now to help his future? But he just… how do you say in English? Rambled? He spoke a lot and did not listen when I tried to calm him.” The priest turns to me, tears welling in his own eyes. “I’m sorry,” His voice is low, I can barely understand him. “I tried. His soul is with Dios now.” The priest turns his face upward, his expression soft, as if speaking to you, apologizing for not saving you. 

“Where… where is the bell tower?” I whisper, barely allowing the words to escape my throat. The priest drops his face and points to the corner behind the altar. “I just want to say goodbye to him one more time.” I choke out in an attempt to assure him that I won’t be succumbing to the same fate as you. 

I begin my climb to the top of the tower. What thoughts were suffocating your mind as you made this same ascent? Did you know that these stairs were leading you to your fate or did you have hope that somehow you would be able to save yourself?

I pull open the small door at the top of the stairs and step out onto the small platform. There’s barely enough room for two people to stand up here. Three different sized bells hang in the stone cutouts around me, the smallest of which is directly in front of me. I walk to the small bell; although most of the stone cutout is occupied by the bell, there is certainly enough room to slip by and be free to the outside world. 

The sun has set and it’s gotten chilly, the wind whistles through the small chamber of the bell tower. I lean over the edge, my heart pummeling against my chest knowing that this is the last view you had. How long did you spend up here? Did you contemplate? Did you think of me? Even if you had, your image of me was probably tainted because of our last interaction, when I had left without saying goodbye or I love you. If I had known, I would have never left. If I had known that that last conversation would hold you hostage, I would’ve stayed for an eternity.

I step back from the ledge allowing myself to make peace with the decision you’ve made. As I turn to leave, however, I notice a short sentence graffitied on the wall beside the small bell. I move closer, squinting my eyes in the darkness trying to make out what the words read. “We’re just too different”. My heart slams against my sternum as hard as the bells that ring in this bell tower. I see stars in my vision and my palms begin to sweat even though the wind has made me shiver. 

“We’re just too different.” The last thing I said to you before I stormed out of your apartment during our heated argument, knowing that that would be the last time we would see each other for five months. The e’s, the same e’s that teased me on that paper on your desk, now stare at me daring me to make the connections that are so clearly laid out in front of me. That is what tormented you these past few months, prompting you to seek guidance in a god you never believed in. But we had made up, we talked on the phone just two days later, I apologized, I told you I loved you. Did you not believe me? Did our final conversation plant a seed of doubt in your mind that blossomed and bloomed due to the fertilization of the distance that separated us? 

The wind pushes up against me pulling me out of the cesspool of despair that my mind has begun to bury itself in. I step back up to the ledge, the same ledge that offered an escape from your tortured thoughts. I stand, staring at the same ground that offered an asylum for your agony. I feel woozy and place my hand on the small bell for support. You did this because of us, because of me, a fact I subconsciously knew but was too ignorant to admit. If only I hadn’t left, hadn’t stormed out, had made an attempt to reconcile then maybe I wouldn’t be standing here and maybe you would be alive. 

I lean against the stonewall of the bell tower, my hand still resting on the bell and my eyes still focused on the ground. My body, my mind, feel exhausted. Is this how you felt up here alone? Reliving the events, imagining a universe where I stayed? My head is spinning. If only I hadn’t stormed out. My vision has split in two. If only I hadn’t left. I keel over, leaning heavily against the wall. If only I hadn’t left.