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Jim didn't even remember how he got back to his room; his mind prevented him from registering what was happening around him as he replayed the same image over and over. The warmth of Plato's body against his own as he held him, urging him to come outside. How stupid he'd been. If he hadn't convinced his friend to come outside, the warmth probably would never have left his body. It was probably the first time Plato hadn't felt cold, and he'd ruined it. Now his friend's body would be cold forever.
He tried to breathe to calm himself down a little as he noticed his heart rate rising rapidly again, but it was no use. The image of his best friend's body was seared into his mind. The motionless corpse, the pool of blood that had quickly spread beneath it, his mismatched socks, his gaze. His gaze, full of fear and betrayal, just before life left his eyes. Jim could see it; he would swear before any higher power that he saw the exact moment life left Plato's eyes.
He felt his stomach churn and barely made it to the bathroom sink to vomit. He didn't know how many times he had thrown up, but it must have been quite a few, because there was nothing left in his stomach. However the nausea kept returning every time he remembered that moment.
He didn't understand why it had affected him so much. It shouldn't have; he had only met Plato a day before and really knew almost nothing about the boy, only that he was completely alone. Even so, there was something about him that had completely captivated him, something that had made him feel different, like he had never felt before when he was with someone. He didn't know what it was, but he knew that Plato had been special. And now he was dead.
The images of his friend's death invaded his mind again, and the pang of guilt returned to his stomach. There was no point in running to the bathroom anymore; no matter how much the nausea overwhelmed him, nothing came out. He covered his mouth to stifle the sound of gagging and realized he'd been crying when he felt the tears dampen his hand. He didn't know how long he'd been like that. He tried to stifle the sobs, filled with shame. A real man shouldn't cry; a real man should be strong, protect his loved ones, not put them in danger. All of this was his fault. If he'd been man enough, none of this would have happened. He wouldn't have been so naive, so stupid, so careless. If he'd been man enough, he wouldn't have been attracted to Plato.
Deep down, he knew what he felt. He knew things with Plato had been different from the start. He'd felt comfortable, truly comfortable with him, as if he didn't have to pretend, as if he could be himself. From the very first moment, he'd been captivated by how naturally his curls fell, by how he became excited when he spoke, when he felt someone was truly listening, by how sincere his gaze was. His gaze.
The memory of his last glance returned to Jim.
He didn't even realize his father had entered his room until he felt him embrace. He heard him say something, but couldn't make out what it was. Then he stopped feeling his father's embrace and heard the door close. His father was probably disappointed in him, in having such a weak, stupid son.
Time passed strangely. Jim no longer registered the days, didn't leave his room, barely slept, and stopped eating. What little he ate he vomited immediately. He spent entire days replaying Plato's last moments in his head, wondering if he could have done anything differently, anything to save him. He knew his parents were worried about him; they brought food to his room and tried to talk to him, but Jim couldn't even understand what they were saying.
Then came Plato's funeral. There weren't many people there. He noticed Judy approaching him and hugging him, but he hadn't reacted. Plato's mother stood expressionless in a corner, as if she didn't care; she hadn't even gone near the coffin the entire time Jim had been there. Jim couldn't really blame her for that; he hadn't done it himself.
The coffin was open, but he hadn't wanted to go near it. He didn't want to see his friend lifeless again; he couldn't bear it. But a part of him felt guilty for not doing so. He didn't want to be like his mother. Mustering his courage, he slowly approached the coffin.
There lay John Crawford, his eyes closed, a peaceful expression on his face. Jim knew that was a lie. His friend wasn't at peace. His death hadn't been peaceful; it had been filled with fear, violence, and a profound betrayal. All because of him. He looked at his friend one last time.
The next thing he knew, he was screaming, a scream so heart-wrenching that it even caught the attention of the indifferent Plato's mother. Then he was on the floor, vomiting. Everything was blurry; he heard voices in the distance and could barely feel his father's touch as he tried to sit him up. Then nothing.
He didn't know how long he was unconscious, but when he woke up, he was back in his room. As he sat up, he noticed his father was sitting on his bed.
"Jim!"
His father exclaimed when he saw him move.
He could understand what they were saying now. It was the first time in days that he understood a sentence. Jim stared at his father without saying anything.
"How are you feeling?" his father asked, concerned.
The question echoed in his head, and he realized. He felt nothing. Absolutely nothing. The anguish, the guilt, the sadness, all of that had vanished. He didn't feel well, not at all; he simply felt nothing, as if he were looking at his life through a dirty pane of glass that prevented him from seeing, or feeling, anything.
He looked at his father expressionlessly and answered automatically.
"Good."