"Hey, Christophe?"
"Oui?"
"When the time comes....Can I have your dog tags?"
"Non."
"Your shovel?"
"Non. I don't zhink Leeviuz would bee too 'appy."
"So he gets them?"
"Non."
............................................................
I never thought I would live past twenty, but still I had spoken of it off hand as thought I would. But I knew better. Six bullets in me and I was still going, insulting and swearing and not backing the fuck down like I should have been. It was all my fault, it could have been avoided, but im too damn stupid to know my limits.
I always did have too much pride for that type of thing. I never thought of you in my haste to get out of there at the last minute. You were speaking into your headset, the one you had bought so you could speak to me while I was away. I could still hear your panicked breath through my ear bud as I was shot down. You were frantic, and I can't blame you.
I was, too.
The concrete was unforgiving and cold. I was numb though so I didn't really feel much. I fumbled for one last cigarette, cursing as my fingers trembled so violently I almost could not light it. I coughed then for the first time in ages, after taking the deepest inhale of my life. I lunged the smoke, head tipped back as it lazily rose from my mouth.
"I wont geet a funeeral. I would bee burieed in zhe back of Leeviuz'z 'ome. Zhat uz, If theere iz anyzhing leeft of mee."
"I'll get you a funeral, Christophe."
"Non. I don't want to be blezzed or reemembered."
"Tough shit!"
...........................................
You tried to talk to be over the head set, your voice coming out in panicked bursts. But I had already thrown my clip off, my desperation enough to make my bones ache. I flatten my palms against the concrete, and force myself to sit up. I clench my fists, teeth bared as I cursed God under my breath and struggled to take in more nicotine. What the fuck am I supposed to do? This isnt supposed to be it for me. I pick up the head set, holding it tightly between my fingers and scream at you. I know it is not your fault, I am simply scared if I am to be honest. I almost want to cry for you to come get me, or even send Livius as pitiful as that sounds. I never ask for help. And I know that I dont have enough time left for someone to come and save me.
"Stop yelling at me damnit! Christophe just...Breathe, okay?"
"Okay, 'ou fucking beetch. I am breezing."
"Hey Cristophe?"
"Oui?"
"I love you, okay?"
".....Oui."
..................................................
It'd be bad, I imagine, to listen to the one you love die. You had been completely helpless to stop it. Livius was probably going through the same thing. And then quietly, my back met the concrete once more. Surrounded by silence, covered in my own blood, I died.
"You sent him to die! You shouldn't have let him go!"
"I could not stop hem! Do you think I did not try! Dammit, Eric I didnt want hem to go! I tried!"
"Obviously not hard enough! You were supposed to love him!"
"More than you ever could! You didn't stop him at all!"
"I guess we're both to blame."
...................................................
I never saw either of you again. You didn't get my dog tags, or shovel, or throw me a fucking funeral either. All of which I am glad about. The metal bearing my identy now belongs on Livius's neck. The shovel rests in the corner of his room, near the side of the bed where I slept. It was the same place I had kept it when I had lived with him. I cant help but feel though, that I left you with nothing but guilt and the smell of my smoke still clinging to your curtains.
