My name is Andrew Jones, and this is my sermon.
That's at least what I wanted to say. I wanted to phase this last moment of my life to such a simplification. It makes me feel better, to size down these last few, pinnacle moments to an admonition of reproofs or fictional appraisals; it makes my nerves tingle less, my hammering heart slow down, and the little noises at the back of my mind—the one's screaming at me to get up—to quiet down—not entirely—but enough for me to at least breathe.
It's the last days of October—not even touching the tips of December yet—and it's snowing, the white ground painted red and stained with shadows of my agony. I think I also see clear liquid touch the snow—and now that I think about it—this liquid is coming from my eyes and spilling on the ground, blurring my vision. I realize, finally, that this liquid is tears, and I'm producing them, creating small rivers in the form of tears across the ground like I'm across an ocean.
I look up, the night sky adorning my vision as I absorb the stars and quarter moon. My hands twitch in anticipation, waiting for a star to fall down in my palms and touch my hands. It never does.
The next thing I hear is screaming. It's coming from my murderer and another voice. This voice I recognize. This voice I've heard often, it's from the quiet kid in my class—the tall Asian one—the 6'6 giant with pale skin, grey eyes, and jet-black hair, yet when my blue eyes lay on his frantic form, he has white hair and blue eyes. He wears all black: black boots, a tight, black long sleeve, black jeans, yet his hair is a stark contrast to the dark persona his clothes give off, but white hair suits him. It makes him look like an angel that fell from the sky. Maybe that's why he's here, to take me home.
"Why are-. He's. Who-. How. Why." Whatever he's saying, it's getting lost in my hazy mind. My murderer, the one adorning a black mask with a matching outfit, is shouting back. They're fighting, tussling, and trudging through the snow as my murderer—let's call them Masked Face—is swinging a whip at the tall Asian kid—oh, by the way, his name is Sebastian, but the version of Sebastian I see every day isn't like this (bold, rough, and has white hair, which is really weird if it isn't dyed), so I'll call him Not-So-Sebastian for the record, and they are fighting with each other like cattle. They're swinging and yelling and kicking and shoving, yet I just lay there, feeling more useless than I've ever at 17-years-old.
I try to sit up, but I fail, feeling my body tense at my efforts to sit up. Not-So-Sebastian must have noticed, because he shoves Masked-Face as hard as he can before he's rushing to me, falling to his knees, holding my bloody body in his big arms.
I feel so small, so helpless, so lost in a reality that I don't think is that—real—and it scares me even more. That's when I start to silently weep, feeling my eyes burn and my stomach burn and my heart hammer faster, faster, faster, like it's going to explode like the stars that refuse to fall in my hands.
"Andrew-I'm-I'm so sorry-I." Not-So-Sebastian is holding onto me, shaking me, my angel watching me leave for home, "fuck this-this wasn't supposed to-I'm sorry-I'm-."
