Chapter 80: The Cold of Outer Space, the Warm Embrace of Death, Part 2

"Alright, beer for me and Ryan, and for the boss... no need to tell me, a Pepsi, right?"

For a moment, Sylvester thought about saying no, that this time he’d drink with them, just to break the routine and not be a buzzkill. But his hatred for alcohol was too deep, too ingrained for that. He’d rather drink poison than touch alcohol, even a little, and he didn’t think there was much of a difference in the first place. He had come in with the idea of making an exception for the end of the world, but it was unavoidable—anyone who grew up with an alcoholic father would feel the same way. Abusive, of course, to him and his mother. He didn’t need to spell it out because he didn’t believe in non-abusive alcoholics.

“Thanks,” he said simply, accepting the cold glass. He had a habit of getting lost in his thoughts. It was always like that when there wasn’t something to punch to help him figure out whatever problem he was facing. You couldn’t teach an old dog new tricks. He took the first sip. The sensation of the liquid sliding down his throat was truly refreshing.

Cynthia sat down at the table, passing her glass to Ryan.

“Well, at least no lines or wait times,” Cynthia said.

“Perks of the end of the world,” Ryan replied.

The two shared a laugh over the joke with an ease and naturalness that left Sylvester stunned. They weren’t talking about some distant possibility but about something that would definitely happen in a few days. Something that was happening, even as they drank here.

But that was obvious; they knew it perfectly well. They joked and tried to have fun, or at least did their best while the world fell apart, and they couldn’t do anything to stop it, for once. Not to get even more depressed and dwell on how things had turned out.

They did that often enough, for far too long.

If the end of the world wasn’t the time to change, there was no time.

It was already too late to join in the laughter, though. That’s what usually happened to him. He could read social cues just fine, only often, a little too late. He wasn’t autistic or anything like that. He was just out of practice, always a few steps behind, always tired.

That wasn’t something he could fix.

It was already too late to fix anything.

But he could enjoy the moment. That was the only thing he had, the only thing all humans and non-humans on this planet had now.

“Guys, you know, I’ve been thinking... we’re not friends,” Sylvester said.

“Oof,” Cynthia replied. “That’s harsh.”

“Let me finish, come on. We’re not friends. How could we be? Always being thrown from one battle to the next, barely time to breathe, let alone get to know each other. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. Maybe we’re something better. Blood brothers. But... I don’t know how to put it.”

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Sylvester took another sip from his glass.

“I sound like I’m drunk, and this is just a Pepsi.”

Cynthia laughed.

“Alright, sometimes you can be funny. I think I get it. You’re saying you regret the missed chance, right?”

“Yeah, but...” How to express it? “I think I never had a chance.

Life is pain, I’m not special, I know that. But… it’s been a long time since I’ve been a proper human being."

"With great power comes great responsibility," Ryan said.

"It’s not about that," he replied, though it was true. A curse that would follow him to the grave. "Or not just that. It started way before. My mother, well, she had Alzheimer’s. Stopped recognizing me very quickly. Deteriorated almost immediately. She was always waiting for a son that would never come. And I never had a father, just a sperm donor."

"I’m sorry," Cynthia said. Her eyes seemed to tell him: I know we know each other less than we should, but this is a pretty heavy way to start fixing that, don’t you think?

Yes, her eyes were very expressive.

Ryan, wordless, placed a hand on his shoulder and gave a squeeze.

He appreciated both gestures.

"I grew to hate her, you know? I know she was sick. It wasn’t her fault, but the hate was mutual. She saw me as a stranger, an intruder. More than once, I thought about grabbing a pillow, putting it over her face, and pressing down until she stopped moving."

There it was.

He had never confessed this madness to anyone, not even to Helen. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her. He loved her with all his heart, or at least as much as someone like him could understand what love was.

The subject had never come up, and he hadn’t seen a reason to share it. Honestly.

Even if he did tell her, he was a hundred percent sure she wouldn’t react negatively. Even if he had killed his mother with his own hands, he was sure Heather wouldn’t judge him. Most human beings didn’t matter to her; why would she turn her back on him over a moral issue?

But still, he had to admit that saying it out loud felt liberating.

He had to admit that, deep down, he had wanted to tell someone all this time.

"When we fought that damn alien, it got into my head and made me see myself killing her. But I never did it. I thought about it seriously, but I never crossed the line. I swear."

“We believe you,” Ryan said slowly after a while. “And it's perfectly normal. Physical illnesses are one thing. They take a real toll on the caregiver, but they’re nothing like mental illnesses. Both, the body and the mind failing? That’s even worse. Deep down, you know you weren’t hating your mother, and she would understand.”

“Yeah, well. Deep down, sure, but that only helps with my guilt. The thing is…” He took another long sip, more to buy time than anything else. “I don’t have a solid foundation, and what came out of it is… not good. We’re blood brothers, companions, kind of friends because of all this. If I had to go through a normal life, I can’t imagine being capable of it. I’d have ended up on the street. And soon in a ditch somewhere. And even if I had met you two… Do you know what I mean? I feel like I’m saying too much and not really saying anything at all.”

"It usually happens when you're not used to being sincere and open," Ryan replied, accurate as always.

"Yeah, well." Sylvester shrugged. "I'm doing what I can."

"Is it time to share stories, traumas, etc?" Cynthia said. "If so, you go first, Ryan, I need to think carefully about my turn."

Ryan snorted.

"Well, it's not a bad idea. Let me think. You already know the biggest one, so you'll have to make do with the second biggest, I'm afraid."

"You don't have to tell us anything," Sylvester said.

"Yeah, but maybe I want to too."

Too. Yes, why wouldn't he understand the importance of giving voice to your regrets?

He regretted having turned what should be a kind of celebration into a depressing event like this, but well, he hoped it wouldn't be reduced to that. And why would it?

After all, they had all the time in the world, even if the world had rather little left.

The Cold of Outer Space, the Warm Embrace of Death, Part 2: END