April 3rd. The same routine every year. He drinks alone in his hotel room laying on the king size bed not even caring if he cries. Your face fills his mind as he drowns another bottle of vodka. He chokes a bit as his sob connects with the alcohol, but he downs it anyway. He lets out another helpless cry sounding like a baby that was just separated from his mother. He gets up only to grab a beer from the mini-bar and collapses on the bed where he immediately passes out.


He dreamed about you that night. He was lying on that same bed as he is now, sleeping. His eyes flutter open to see you hovering above him. You look like a ghost, completely transparent, but you features stand out to him more than ever, making you look extra beautiful. Your stringy blonde hair even more yellow. He reaches out to see if you’re really there but his hand goes straight through you. A single tear slips from his eye and you reach down to wipe it away, your hand as solid, real and warm as ever. Your hand cups his cheek and you bring yourself down to kiss his lips gently. You slowly fade away.

“I love you.” He says, voice cracking.

“I love you too,” you reply, your voice distant and getting further.


April 4th. He didn’t drink enough, for at three in the afternoon he wakes up. He didn’t want to be there on the anniversary of you, his lover’s death. The tears run as he flashes back to memories of you two together, of him finding you dead, of your funeral. He reaches across the bed only to find empty space.

“Kurt! Kurt come back to me!” He cries pleading and reaching into the air. But you don’t come to him, you can’t, because you killed yourself selfishly, never thinking about how much he loved you.

Even twelve years later, he can’t take this day, but every year so far he’s been asleep through it. ‘Damn, why hadn’t the alcohol worked?’ He though. He notices a pile of broken glass next to the bed. He had dropped it in his sleep, not realizing he had fallen asleep drinking. This was one reason he always passes out on this day, he knew he would do this.

He took the largest piece of glass in the pile and walked into the bathroom. He took a stick of eyeliner and wrote on the mirror, ‘April 4th, 1994, the day I died.’ It was the closest to a suicide note he could do. He brought the glass up to the inside of his arm and slashed the full length of his lower arm. A trail of blood came pouring out in from the crease of his elbow to his wrist. He winced at the pain but was too numb to notice. He continued slashing himself until he was too weak to stand and he fell. His head felt heavy and the whole room was spinning, but he still struggled to life his heavy hand up to make a final cut. He passed out in a pile of his own blood.

He opened his eyes and felt himself lift up. He looked behind him and saw his dead body lying in a pool of red. Someone grabbed his right hand. He slowly turned around to see you smiling at him. You led him forward until you both faded away together, both of you happy for the first time in so long.

not sure how I feel about it, but please let me know!! Con-crit welcomed!