I couldn't tell you what he was thinking when he did it. I couldn't tell you what he felt, if his hands were shaking, or if he felt that gut twisting feeling of doubt mixed with utter relief of finally getting away. I don't know how to express the way he felt, every day, when he would stare up into the night sky wondering what would happen after he did it. I don't know how to explain his side of the story, because perhaps there wasn't a side at all, not the way it should've been, or could've been. Maybe it's wrong of me, to sit here and give you my view point when we all know that he would be another face in the crowd, another burial tombstone in the graveyard. The only difference is that his parents wouldn't be able to come visit him, hiding in shame to hide their own guilt of not seeing it before.
This won't be about me. You don't need to know my facial features, you don't need to know anything about me right now. This is about him. It will always be about him. I spent my nights wondering what he was doing, and instead of pretending that the sky was some savior, I thought of it as an ocean that was keeping us away from each other for a certain period of time. You don't need to know these small details about my life, about my last name or my skin tone or if I liked Rock n' Roll or Pop. My favorite food is non-existent, for all you know I could be starving because I spent my last amount of money on this fucking journal writing about someone who never had the decency to say goodbye. But if you can't go on, I'll tell you when I'm done with this journal entry, I'll tell you what I am and who I look like, but while I write, I want you to grab a mirror.
I never knew James Ackrey in a way like his parents would. I wouldn't know about his first word, or his favorite hobby as a child, or his first A on a test. In fact, I wouldn't know anything about him except the fact that he had this knack for music. He wasn't Beethoven, but he was something else. I always felt that whenever we would sit together at the lunch table, a couple seats apart, if he couldn't get the right notes that were playing in his head, he would throw the tray across the cafeteria and wonder why everything was so goddamn loud and blame everything on the noise around him instead of his lack of knowledge of musical notes and instruments. And yet, he acted as if he had all the schooling in the world. It's like that five dollar notepad of sheet music would be the last thing that kept him here, at least for a little while.
We would argue, but not really argue. It's weird, but I know you know what I mean. You bicker, but you don't take it seriously, not until the other person seems more than just your average offended little bitch. I would make comments about the music, giving random suggestions and he would always just throw his hand up in my face and telling me that he's busy and if I wanted to help him, I would go get more music books from the library. I never knew why I stuck around, I guess in some weird way, I liked what we had. It wasn't like we had sleep overs, eating cookies and watching movies together while gossiping, not that he would ever be caught doing any of the above. And neither would I, to be honest with you.
One of the few memories we have together is when we would sit in the park with our instruments, where he would hold the sheet music out and give me the keyboard and expect me to be able to make it a beautiful symphony of notes. That's how it always started, and that's how it'll end. My fingers playing across the keys, glancing at the sheet music as I try to read everything between the half notes, quarter notes and all the little signals of vibrato and allegro. And he would sit there, with a violin or a cello and play along. That's how our afternoons would be, sitting somewhere in a deserted park on a blanket with instruments and playing until our fingers couldn't take anymore. He always seemed okay after that.
I never knew about his home life. I don't know if his parents were married, or if maybe by some weird chance that he actually had gay parents and just never told anyone. I don't really know if they were proud of him, or were the catalyst of what happened at all. My only memories of him saying anything about his home life would be that he would have to be there around seven o'clock to catch dinner. Lie or not, it was never really something that was worth looking into. I always liked to believe that he would spend so much time with me because he needed me as much as I needed him, but even though it would never be something admitted. We all have someone like that, though. The keys to our lock, the maple to our syrup, the honey to our combs. That was James, but I don't know what I was to him, and maybe that's a good thing.
I was never going to write anything about him, you know. I was going to go to his funeral, tell him how much of an idiot he was, and how sorry I was for not being someone when I should've been. I wasn't a someone, I was a shadow, a mute, stuck behind someone because of the oblivious fact that perhaps the world needs people who are bold and proud and compassionate. That wasn't me, that was never going to be me. Not until he came along and changed it all, but not in this whole romantic way, but in a way where you sit back and you realize that you've changed without even fucking realizing it. I was never going to buy this journal the day of his dedication concert, I was never going to even give a dedication concert, not until I went into his house and found him.
I won't describe the scene to you, the only thing I can tell you is that it was clean and simple. I laughed after I cried, wondering how a man could ever be simple to anyone. I guess the main thing I always have to remind myself is the fact that James was secretive, not complicated, and they were entirely different things. Things that I should've recognized before I found his letter. And the fucked up part about it all, is that it wasn't even sad. There was no real explanation into why he did it, but there were no signs of anything else but suicide. I guess I knew in my heart all along that it was suicide because he had his symphony beneath his feet. I didn't notice it at first until I fell to my knees in pure shock and misery, but after I looked down to the floor for a brief moment I saw that he was almost done.
That's when I began to laugh.
Not because I couldn't handle the death, but because I felt that he left me this unfinished symphony as a gift. A gift to me saying, " Let's go out with a bang." And I agreed with him, full heartedly. A year later, I finished his symphony, and as I sit here in my composer clothes, writing what would've been how I felt about the concert, I sat here and wrote about him instead. This mysterious, secretive guy who I barely knew, yet I needed him more than anything else. I don't know what I'll do with this journal, I guess I'll sit back and put it in the case with hi- I mean our- symphony. And I'll put it on my bookshelf, and I'll remind myself that everyone is a James Ackrey to somebody else, that sometimes, it isn't the past that brings people together, it's the bang for when they get out.
James Ackrey, I hope you're happy.
