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The door to my room opened with a rusty squeal, my bag dropping off my sore back as I tripped over dirty clothes and fell face-first on my bed. School had been a nightmare. Why am I taking a dead language? Why was bio so hard?
The jukebox in the corner clicked to life, the tape inside circling back to the same song for the hundredth or so time. I didn’t need to press the button this time. Its schedule is back on, unlike mine.
I sat there for a while. My uncle H was gone, I did all my chores in the morning, so why do anything? It was exhausting just existing.
For a while, I just stared at the ceiling. Nothing to do, no time to do it. My uncle H would be home soon, and he’d wanna do something for the holidays. Something was poking my leg from under my bed. It got annoying after a minute or two of the jukebox playing the same song it had been stuck on since April.
I sat up and grabbed the box, pulling it up on my lap. It was sealed shut with a tiny bit of tan painters' tape, my handwriting in Sharpie slapped on the front. ‘Memories of Him’, it said. So that's where I put this.
The jukebox started the same tune. “A pity she does not exist… a shame he's not a…”
I opened the box, coughing slightly at the distinct smell of herbs, alcohol, and dust that wafted out. It was full of pictures and little trinkets that belonged to him. I lifted a few.
Him on a stage, the middle of that tavern, with a pitcher of the keeper’s finest for his '19th' birthday. “The moment he walked on the stage, my tail began to wag...”
Him, with his arm wrapped around a younger me, laughing at that new park that opened near Oslo. It took forever to get out that far, but it was worth it. “Wag like a little weiner dog, for… in…”
Soft, sweet memories floated past me as I dug through the box. Glasses and a Miku charm from that day in the city, the washer from his broken roller skate, and a few beaded necklaces from the parade last summer. At the bottom was a neatly folded shirt with a note with his handwriting on it: “This is for you, Adly. Wear it.”
I slowly took it out and held it in front of me. It was worn, with tears on the sides of the sleeves, and the cover on the front was barely visible, but it was his. It had that smell he always had, a mix of sandalwood, mint, alcohol, and a little bit of something I couldn’t recognise.
The jukebox kept singing. “I’ve always been a ladies' man, and I don’t have to brag… But I’d become a momma’s boy for…”
I threw off my dirty school shirt and slipped it on instead, smoothing it out over scarred skin. It felt nice. Even if it was old, worn, and torn, it was still so warm against me, like he was still here. I could almost hear his voice again, telling me everything was going to be alright.
“I’d sign away my trust fund, I would even sell the Jag… If I could spend my misspent youth with…”
I fell back on my bed, just thinking about what it would be like to see him again. How we’d have more adventures. He’d learn my new name. We’d probably go to the same school and have so much fun… We’d still go through the forest, picking winter berries, finding new animals, and making forts out of pine needles and sticks…
We’d find out new things. Go new places. Learn about what's under the sea near the ports and rocky shores. Maybe we’d go to Turtle Island, or Abya Yala, seeing all of the new places and things that we’d never see in our small town in Norway.
We’d still dance and sing: he’d be my guitarist. We’d make songs together, and I’d pitch my ideas to him. We’d travel all over, singing to millions of fans.
We’d cuddle up in the winter, safe and warm together. Tea in our hands as we watched the snow flood the streets like it was made just to drown us.
But my thoughts stopped once I remembered.
He’s gone.
Forever.
Never for us to explore again, never for us to see the world, never for us to sing and dance, never for us to be together.
He’s gone. And I can’t bring him back.
I slowly sat up, holding the shirt that fell loosely over my sore, scarred limbs, and for the first time since he left, I wept. Tears staining my dirty jeans, I curled up into a ball and started thinking.
Don’t think about him. Don’t think about how much it would’ve hurt. Don’t think about how he didn’t wanna die. Don’t think about the doctors that didn;t do a damn thing to help him when he was dying.
Best of all, don’t think.
Clear your mind.
Don’t remember.
Don’t remember…
As my thoughts drifted, the jukebox’s tape jumped to the end of the song.
“So stick him in a dress, and he’s the only boy I’d shag,
The only boy I’d anything is Andrew in Drag.
I’ll never see that girl again, he did it as a gag,
I’ll pine away forevermore, for Andrew in Drag…”
The Jukebox stopped playing when I passed out.
I woke up an hour later to my uncle standing above me. “Hey, kiddo. Thinking about MJ again?”
“...Yeah.”
“Cmon. Let's get something to eat, you need it.” I smiled and took his hand. Grief was a weird thing. I’m still wearing his shirt. I still have his jukebox. My uncle must get very tired of me crying over him.
“Oh, Damien?”
“Yeah?..”
“I’m sure he’s still watching you, even if you can’t see him.” He smiled and pat my head. “That's the joy of this family.”
“Yeah… you’re right.” I smiled back and walked with him, out of the little house on top of the little hill, away from the noise of Nedstrand.