I stopped counting the days when I visited him late at night. Every night was almost the same. I found him sitting cross-legged on one of the corners of his room. I entered his room and he barely lift his head. The half-hearted smile on his lips were the only thing he gave me as a sign that the he was aware of my presence.
I noticed something else, though ... his hands were bleeding. Again. Pieces of broken glasses shattered on the floor. He was clutching few pieces on his right hand. I tried to touch his right hand and one of the sharp edges cut my fingertips. Don't ... he whispered, please. I knew he won't let go. He was still trying to fix what's broken. Every single night, he would walk around his room, trying to find pieces of broken glass and then just trying to put them back together. He didn't care that the pieces hurting him.
And I couldn't do anything. Apart from wiping the blood form each fresh wounds he got during his effort. I listened to him as he told me his plan of making things right again. He put the pieces on the floor, smiling tearfully as some of the pieces he put together still fit and looked lovely. I would smile with him, telling him that it was beautiful and tried to overlook the missing pieces as well as his bloody hands. Sometimes he cried and I would hold him. Every night would end the same. He would fell asleep on the floor, crying.I would sit next to him in silence. Wishing I knew what to do apart from staring at the grim glass aplique he made that night.
Sometimes I humor myself by looking at his beautiful sleeping face, quoting one of my favorite books : Frankenstein. Awake, fairiest, thy love is near. He would give his life but to obtain one look of affection from thine eyes. And then, I laughed bitterly at myself. As if I still have a life I call my own to give him. At the end, I always ended up reciting the story of the sun and the moon.
The sun ... love the moon so much ... he died every night to let her breathe ...
That one night, when I arrived at his room, he wasn't there. The broken glasses were still scattered on the floor. I took some of pieces away carefully, so he won't hurt himself when he got back. The sharp edges hurt my hand and for the first time, I was bleeding. I stared at my crimson hand in astonishment and fear. I thought I was already dead ... I thought all the life had been taken away from me and I had none left ... but the warm, crimson blood that ran down my hands were proofing me wrong.
The door opened and I saw him walked in ... with the bringer of death. He tried to avoid my eyes, but the bringer of death didn't.
I'm sorry ... he told me. The bringer of death walked pass him and stand between both of us.
I could no longer be with you ... he continued. The bringer of death stared at me with odd look in his eyes. It was as if ... he was feeling sorry for me.
I could be with someone who is already dead ... I need someone alive, so I could live too ... I had enough death in my life ... he finally lifted his gaze. I saw his face and then, I understood what was coming for me.
I looked at the bringer of death and laughed bitterly, just when I thought I didn't have any more life in me.
I'm sorry, child ... the bringer of death whispered.
Goodbye ... please be at peace now. He said.
The last thing I saw was the bringer of death lifting his silver sickle. I felt the familiar agony when it hit me. Forcing yet more life out of me. Just when I thought I had nothing left. Once again, I'm on the dark room. Alone. This time, I saw a light coming from one of the broken windows. I tried to walk and my feet step on something. I looked down. Pieces of broken glasses everywhere.
No ... I thought. Please no ...
Yet, at the same time ... my hands starting to move by themselves, picking up pieces by pieces.
