A Dream of a Friend Long Gone

I dreamt the other night that I met Death. Not Death in his tall tale glory, cloaked in black and wielding a shining blade. Death incarnate. My friend John, who died two months ago in a fire.

The room where I sat was cold and dark. I felt if I spoke my voice would echo. The desolate blackness, like some ancient, frozen being, lost long ago in the void of time, held me in its form. I wore it on my sleeves, the blackness, the slime that trickled down my hands. But I was warm. At peace. Safe in the comfort of what I knew, what I hoped, was eternal.

Then came the light. A light not blinding, not so bright that I was forced to shield my eyes, but something translucent. A small door had opened, exposing a passageway to the place beyond. A figure passed through, leaving the doorway unguarded. As I watched the figure approach, I realized it was John.

He wore a white t-shirt and blue jeans, his hair tussled and outgrown. His face was solemn, unmoved. He did not glance upon me. He took a seat beside me without a sound. I watched him breathe slowly, calmly, his face unscathed, untouched from flames long dead. He joined his hands together. The skin of his hands was blackened and burnt, a sole trace of the inferno that took his life. He sighed. We sat shoulder to shoulder, side by side, surrounded by darkness. But what held me, the shadows on my skin, did not reach for John. The blackness surrendered in his wake, standing like cautious predators circling their prey but afraid to strike.

I spoke.

“What do we do when everything’s gone?”

John did not reply. A small smile crept across his face. He reached over and took my hands in his, holding them tight, and fire spread through me. A warmth, a blazing, wonderful life, flowed through my veins. A golden light emerged from John, lifting from his body, drawn from his chest. It grew in power, till I could see nothing but light. The shadows fled from my hands and into the corners of the room, huddled away from the shining glory.

Then John let go.

He stood before me and leaned in, touching my shoulder and patting it twice. Then he turned and made his way to the doorway.

The fire left and the darkness I wore crept back to me, latching to my form. The cloak I wore no longer felt safe, but smoldering, suffocating and cold, ice water against my skin. The warmth had vanished. John stood in the doorway, his body tense. He looked as though there was something he wanted to say, something to comfort the man he would leave alone in the silence, but he never had the chance. The door had already shut, cutting off the light from the world.

I called out for John, my friend long gone, but no one answered.