Staring at the pool puddling up to the middle of his calves, he shed two tears and nothing more;
βSend me a sign of life.β
And echoed out a voice none but the boy could make out, βBut, boy. I cannot send you a sign of life. Because you are life. And the grass around you is life, as well as that water there, dwelling at your feetβyes, yes, the water that was once coldβthe water that you now adapted to. Life is the light emitting from those streetlights you can never seem to look away from, life is the unseen moon and the neverending sky that pairs with the millions of suns that lie above it, the suns that you like to call βstarsβ.
How am I supposed to send you a sign of something that is everything?β
So the boy called out once more, whether truly out loud or truly in his mind;
βSend me a sign of death.β
And once more echoed out the voice none but the boy could make out, βBut, boy. I cannot send you a sign of death. Because you are death. You are the song of the bellowed generations before you. And the uprooted milkweeds and rotting bugs that lie invisible to the eye, followed by this very graveyard of dwelling used-to-be friendships. Death is what becomes of an exploding star. Death is what awaits after the best of days. Life cannot be without death.β
The very same boy, riddled with pain, continued;
βIf not life or death, then what? What awaits me, voice? What do I do if both are equal? What does that mean for me? What sign is that?β
Alas, the voice that none but the boy could make out echoed like a chime, βBut, boy. I cannot send you a sign of yourself. You are life, you are death. You ask for yourself. The only one who can provide you with what you want, is you.β
The boy cried and cried, seemingly stuck in a sorrowful loop of nothing;
βBut there is no me! There is no me. There never has been a me. βMeβ is insignificant to life and death, what purpose do I behold? Iβm afraid not even music can bring me forth to an awakening.β
The voice that none but the boy could make out laughed.
the type of laugh that only one could hear,
the type of laugh like a tree falling in the forest,
βBut, boy. There never has been a life or a death without you.β
A chuckle, one that seemed to the likes of the voice;
βThere will be. I know now. Itβs not that I wasnβt fulfilled.
itβs that I already was.β
And with that, he stood up,
and he shot himself with his fatherβs Remington 700.
