The Last Handful of Clover - Book 1: The Hereafter

1.11 The Long, Dark Night

June 5, 10:30 pm

Richard wondered if the dead ever felt weary, or sleepy. Or (as the saying went) "dead to the world."

He wanted to feel tired. Considering all he had been through, he should feel tired. But lying next to Keith, the night felt longer than any in his life, and he had never felt so awake. Staring at his sleeping lover, he instinctively knew that he had slept his last night. For as long as this lasted, whatever this was, he knew he would be awake and alert.

Had such a strange condition befallen him in his life, he would have counted it a blessing. How amazing to have eight extra hours a day for reading, or friends, or travel! How he could have thrived in a life suddenly made a third longer by losing the need to sleep. But now, it appeared that he would bear silent witness to the life and death of the man he loved, in a world that he could never be a part of again. Would never sleeping be a blessing? Or would it just prolong and intensify the pain and the loss that he must endure?

Twice during the evening he felt Keith's breath hitch in his chest, and Richard knew his lover was crying in his sleep; tortured by a dream or a memory, or perhaps the nightmarish reliving of Richard's death. He touched the tear that emerged from Keith's closed eye, and it was like a bead of glass under his ghostly finger.

Even though Richard was the one that had died, he knew that the impact on Keith's world would be as devastating as it was on his own. If the tables had been turned, Keith's death would have destroyed him as surely as any bullet. The thought made him shiver in the dark. Richard played out in his mind the grotesque picture show of Keith smiling and laughing and reaching for his hand one second and then looking shocked as half his head disappeared in a spray of blood the next. What would witnessing such a thing do to him? Could he even survive it with his mind intact? He allowed that movie to play just once. Any more, he knew, and he would not only be awake for an eternity, but lost in despair as well. What Keith had endured the past few days was simply beyond comprehension, and Richard, for one, was glad to let it stay that way.

So much grief lay with him in their bed, now cold and distant. So much despair behind his lover's dreaming eyes. Eyes that would open with the dawn to what Keith would see as an empty room.

Richard balled his right hand into a fist and curled it tightly against Keith's chest. He tried to will Keith to reach up, grasp his hand and clasp it against his heart—as he had so often done before. He concentrated and visualized Keith reaching for him. But the smaller man just shivered, and his hands gripped and released the sheets in his sleep. Another tear crept down Keith's cheek and it was absorbed by his pillow.

Richard couldn't lay with Keith very long. It was like lying on a cobblestone street, and soon, every motion aggravated his aching body. Clearly, there was no comfort or ease in death. When he could stand it no longer, Richard sat up. Moving to the edge of the bed, he forced himself to turn away.

The clock on the bedside table read 10:40. At this time of night, the room should seem dark and gloomy, but Richard could make out every detail. It wasn't like he could see it all exactly. Somehow he could perceive not only what was in front of him but also what was behind his back. It was more like he felt the room, or that he was such a part of it, that he couldn't tell the difference between his own body and the knickknacks on the nightstand.

But that wasn't quite right, either.

Taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, Richard was relieved to find the world blocked out. The blankness behind his eyelids gave him some relief from the painful memories that were steeped into every object in this room. His memories actually seemed sharper now, more vivid than those same memories when he was alive. They had become accessible and tangible and real in a way that made them feel almost alive.