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Christmas had always tasted like the body of Christ to Todd: bland, yet he knew he was suppose to find meaning in it’s dullness.
It was in some way like any other day, except with more family member to gush over his brother or push his elbow when he murmured answers to their invasive questions. Then there would be mass, the priest would talk about a love he could not feel and a fear he knew too well, and that was it. The 26th would come and he would be the lucky owner of a new pair of socks or maybe an oddly expensive fountain pen. And if God was born then no one really had noticed.
For the past few years though, December had left a bitter taste in his mouth, like bile in the back of his throat, the burn so sharp it made his eyes tear-up. And as soon as the first decorations were installed, his body would tense, echoes crawling up his spine and weighting heavily on the back of his neck; whispering in his ear while choking his last breath. Neil’s bed was cold but the memories were still warm, he saw it in the other guys eyes just as much as he saw it in the mirror.
Sometimes he recalled the play or the funerals, but most of the time it would be flashes of his smile. Images of times that Todd couldn’t exactly place, things that shouldn’t have meant anything, touches that never came to anything and that, now, would always be nothing. It had truly meant nothing. Nothing ever meant anything and nothing will ever matter anymore. Neil’s act hadn’t meant anything, and it had made Todd so angry at first. He would punch the other mattress, hard. And if Neil had been here he would have punched him just as hard. But Neil wasn’t there, and all Todd could do was bury his wet face into the cold ruffled bed sheets, feeling his own punches on his knuckles and on his pounding headache.
Now it had been some years since he had left the half empty room. In some odd way he believed it was haunted by the void Neil had left behind him. It acted like a black hole, an empty vacuum space, sucking all the life out of their spines when they all had been there back then. You could stand in the room and feel he was not there, feel that there wasn’t any way he would ever be again. And all his stuff that his parent’s hadn’t been interested on taking back hanged there like trying to remember something but not being able to figure out the details. Todd had stolen some things before Neil’s parent’s came pick the rest up. No one knew, and he wasn’t sure they had even noticed. On a particularly empty night, the air had felt too thick to breath, to heavy to stand up in and all he had managed to do was crawl in Neil’s bed, holding his shirt and his glasses in a crushing grip; begging someone, anyone, God to make it stop. But if God had answered then he hadn’t notice.
The next day came and he had kept what was left in his bruised hands, the room had felt just slightly less empty after that.
But even now, he still woke up some nights, damp and stiff, stumbling out of bed in a hurry toward Neil’s, finding nothing but the wall of his bedroom. He would claw at it, scream, moan at the wall until the exhaustion or someone else would drag him back to bed. He could get a new apartment with a new bedroom, move his furniture around, he could run away but he was still there, still right where it happened. If he really tried to, he could almost feel it: the warmth of Neil’s hand on his skin, the biting cold of the snow Charlie had rushed to his mouth. How daunting it is to be aware, to face it: Neil is dead, he has been for years.
So at Christmas dinner when a distant relative asks when will he finally bring someone home? Maybe this year he will be able to think of an answer that doesn’t sound like Neil’s name. Maybe this year he won’t clench his fist when hearing a man laugh, when seeing a couple in the street. Maybe this year he won’t look at the sky when the stars are out or when it’s raining or snowing, and he won’t slur out words that ring like prayers. But his on the far side of a bench, his legs cramped between his mother’s and an armrest that digs into his thighs ever so slightly.
Again
Some guy walks past the nativity scene and takes the microphone to read out a verse. The robe fits him well, he’s a flash of brown hair and a dazzling smile and for some second Todd could swear he’s reading out lines from the play. Todd feels it buzzing through the air, feels the metal of Neil’s glasses in his pocket heat up unbearably and his knees locking in place, ready to jump up and run. Run to this man, grab his face and push his hair out of the way, holding him so tight like he will never let go, so he can stare down his eyes and see if he can recognize them. Or run outside, escape into the freezing loneliness of the church’s parking lot, his breath visible and tangible; same as the ghost of Neil’s body when he closes his eyelids. He does none of it. Just takes it in, digging his nails in his palms like it could bring some kind of relief. And when mass will be over and everyone has gone home, he will run upstairs before anyone notice and his organs will tear open and his rib cage won’t be able to contain them as they’re being pulled apart. The horror rushing through his veins will be just as debilitating as the first time he felt it, and Todd won’t die from it but he might just as well.