He stumbles through life, warm-cheeked, with drowsy eyes. His feet cross with every corner he turns. Constantly asking whatever higher power is out there to save him from the world. It is quite pitiful. Muscles have built in his index from all the blame he’s put on others. It’s not his fault he isn’t motivated. It’s not his fault he’s put on weight. It’s always someone else’s. Stupid people, damaging his intuition and control. He hasn’t seen his best friend in months, and he laughs about it to himself in attempts to cover up the pain. He loses himself in daydreams about brilliant ideas. Ideas that are just out of his reach, but only because he won’t put down the bottle long enough to take a piss. Things weren’t always this way. No, under that unshaven beard lies one of the most glorious smiles you could ever see. An untouched smile, growing more ancient by every passing day. It was radiant, really. Oh, how I wish he would smile again. Before she passed, he never questioned the world. Now that’s the only thing that makes since to him. Why her, world? Why did you choose her? Why put her perfection into that cursed body? Not one flaw to her soul, but that means nothing to cancer. She was always there for him. After he got turned down for senior prom, they spent the night star gazing in the back of his truck while she convinced him prom was just a social standard anyways. That it was lame. She never told him she spent over a hundred dollars on her dress. Or that she cancelled last minute on the boy she’s been crushing on for the past two years. That didn’t matter to her. He did. To think it took him until his mid-twenties to realize she was the one! The time between their meetings had grown in duration. After graduation, they’d gone off to separate colleges. Made separate friends. At this point, it had been several months since they’d last seen each other. He was laying in bed on a chilly night in October, missing her, and that’s when it hit him. It’s her and it always has been. He drove until one o’clock that morning, and she welcomed him with open arms. Seven months later they lived together. Dreamt of marriage, got snow cones on the corner every Friday. He bought her flowers, she bought him fuzzy socks and made fun of him for wearing them. All was well. She was diagnosed three years later. A few weeks before their wedding. Maybe she could have survived if she would have gone through with the chemo. Yet, the doctor said the chances were slim and she chose to live out the rest of her life happily. They continued on with the wedding, and the reception was beautiful. They spent the rest of her days travelling. Seeing some of the places she had always longed to see. They made the most of her time, and did things he will never forget. Now, he wishes he could. He sold the home they shared, as he couldn’t walk its halls without tears rising from the eyes that have seen too much pain. In his new studio apartment, he has all of his pictures of her in a taped up box in the back of a closet. He sits in the recliner he always sits in, with a half-empty bottle of scotch in his lap. His alcohol-filled blood runs red down his fingers, leaking out of the deep cuts on both wrists. It slowly drips onto the unswept hardwood. He could never find her here, but with his last dying thought he knew damned well he would find her somewhere.