I Wish You Were Dead

You think about it all the time—with impunity. You say it all the time—just as a reminder. It comes out soft like silk, an eternal sigh of sympathy passing your lips. “I wish you were dead.”

He agrees with you. You know he does. He lets you rewrite his thoughts, overcome his will. He knows you’re not the evil you’re made out to be. And you? You’re flattered, of course, by his confidence in your character.

His fingers twitch and his seeping eyes close. He stills. He knows this is a facsimile of what you want, but you admire him for trying to imagine it, even a little—the relief of it.

“Should it be today or tomorrow?”

You advise, “You’ve lived too much of today. It’s ruined. Tomorrow, at least you can spend most of it more dead than alive.”

“My girlfriend is coming tomorrow.”

“She also came today. Does it make a difference?”

“Not to me,” he said. “But tomorrow is our anniversary, so…”

You clap your hands together. “Doesn’t that make it an even better day to die?”

“I don’t think my death should have that much meaning.”

You sniff and turn your nose up at his words. “The day before your anniversary, the day of your anniversary, there’s meaning to both. Are you sure tomorrow is really no good?”

“I’m sure,” he said firmly.

And that was that. He flicks off the weak fluorescent lights in the bathroom and exits. You always speak to him in the bathroom. It’s disgusting. There’s a layer of scum lining the rim of the toilet. There’s a toothbrush used so much the bristles are only worthy of being used to clean the floor. The mirror has spider-length cracks.

He’s disgusting.

His girlfriend, the goddess that she is, doesn’t think so. You don’t understand why. He doesn’t either. This is something you share with each other.

When she arrives the next day—the oh-so-meaningful anniversary day—he’s excited to see her. You don’t blame him for this. Her beauty is piercing. Enough so that he resists what is right, what is true, and fights another day where you say, “I wish you were dead.”

“How are you feeling?” she asks him. You scoff.

“Not too bad. Just trying to hang in there.”

She kisses him and swipes his bangs across his soaked forehead. “Happy anniversary,” she whispers. You can’t help but notice how she comes entirely empty-handed. You wonder if she’s decided not to waste her hard-earned cash on someone so decrepit and dull.

“Happy anniversary,” he says. “Thanks for coming.”

She laughs. “You say that every day.”

“Well, you deserve to hear it every day. What’s wrong with that?”

“Flirt.”

“No, that’s you.”

You listen to them speak to each other for a long time. At first, about the birds that visit him outside his window, and then, about the sweets she saw in the bakery window on her way home.

Eventually, she bites her lip, and stops speaking. “Listen,” she begins tentatively, “I know you said no more doctors, but I got into contact with a really incredible specialist, and he said he could see you in six months. Do you think you can…”

You can’t help but think her request is merciless. If she really loved him, she’d wish he was dead!

He doesn’t mention what he discusses with you, ever. Now is no different, even though you’ve urged him to tell her countless times. This is how you know they’re made for each other.

He smiles at her. “I’m tired,” he says, his eyes beginning to seep again. “Let’s talk more about it tomorrow.”

“Okay. You just rest, alright?” She kisses him again before gathering her purse. “But tomorrow for sure, yeah? Promise?”

You wait to hear what his response is. He’d already promised himself to death, so you found yourself wondering—which promise would he break first?

“Sure,” he says easily. “See you tomorrow.”

You should have known.

Next time you speak with him, you’re irritated. “You liar.”

“What else was I supposed to say?”

“This happens every time,” you growl. “How can you let her do this to you?”

He chuckles under his breath. “She deserves hope. Not that I have any myself.”

You sigh again. “Haven’t I told you it will be gentle? If you’re worried about leaving her behind then…”

“Then…what?”

You smile. “You should just wish she was dead, too.”

His seeping eyes open wide. You open them up to the possibility of that beautiful void they could walk into together, and he smiles with shattered teeth. “When should I tell her that? Tomorrow maybe?”

“Yes,” you say with a tender expression. “Yes. Tomorrow.”