Sam is Dead. Hannah Kirkell

face wasn’t exactly a smile, but I felt with alarming certainty that for Sam, it was pretty damn close.

      *****

      Sam is dead. He will never again smile at anyone who had the nerve to hold the door for him, and he will never again slam the door in anyone’s face.

      Sam is dead.

      And it’s all my fault.

      Chapter Four

      Sam is dead.

      The moment I allow myself to be happy, that fact—a fact colder and crueler than death itself—reminds me why I cannot be.

      Sam is dead, and if I am the only one mourning him, then I will mourn him enough for everyone.

      I miss Sam.

      This is the first time I have allowed myself to think that. I wish it wasn’t so. I wish I was just like everyone else in the town, content to hate a man, a murderer, that they did not know. I wish Sam didn’t intrigue me after our first three encounters. Maybe then I would be free of the terrible guilt that crushes me when I try to slip into sleep’s release.

      God, I wish I could sleep.

      But Sam continues to find his way into my dreams. At first, I slept so that I could see Sam. Now, I stay awake so that I cannot. Every time I dream of him or hear his name, I feel a seed of guilt panic in my stomach.

      Sam is dead. He has been for three months as of today, and I still cannot come to terms with it.

      *****

      After our last encounter, I didn’t see Sam for a few weeks. I tried to tell myself I wasn’t looking for him, but as I’ve never been in the business of lying to myself, I couldn’t.

      Sam was the most interesting person I’d ever seen or heard of. His complexity rivaled that of a fictional character. Before, I did not know that humans could be so complex.

      It was a cold day in February when I decided to walk to the library in hopes of finding a new book to read. When I found one that piqued my interest, I settled down onto the uncomfortable couch to see how it read.

      It had a slow beginning, but it was starting to get interesting when a shadow crossed my page. I glanced up and flinched in surprise when I met Sam’s gaze.

      “What the hell? Say something next time!” I yelped, much to the chagrin of the librarians who proceeded to shush me.

      Sam laughed quietly, and I realized that it was the first time I’d heard him really laugh. For such a scary man, he had a nice laugh.

      “Lighten up, kid. Where’s the fun in that?”

      I shook my head. “I don’t like people sneaking up on me.”

      Sam arched an eyebrow. “Oh?”

      I set my jaw and did my best to stare him down. “Oh.”

      He nodded in what I hoped was understanding. “So what are you reading?” he asked, seemingly anxious to change the subject.

      I flashed him the cover, not trying to hide the annoyance at being disturbed. His eyes lit up.

      “Catch-22?”

      “Yeah.”

      “Do you like it?”

      I sighed.

      “Well, I don’t know. See, someone named Sam keeps interrupting me while I’m trying to read it,” I snapped.

      To my surprise, he laughed. “All right, kid, point taken. Calm down. I’m just trying to make some conversation.”

      I put down my book, exasperated. “Why me?”

      He made direct eye contact with me. “Because you seem to be the only person in this goddamn town who doesn’t hate me for one reason or another.”

      I blinked, and in my hesitation, Sam managed a weak smile, and all but ran from the room.

      *****

      To this day, I haven’t been able to finish the book. Every time I see the cover, I remember Sam’s failed attempt at concealing the pain in his voice. As tough as he was, I know it got to him just how alone he was.

      If I could go back and say something, anything to make him turn around again to stay, I would. I wish I’d been able to find the right words to tell Sam that I didn’t hate him, and that I found him to be kind at times—albeit difficult to get along with.

      But I cannot turn back the years, and I can never tell Sam what I wish I’d said three years ago.

      Because Sam is dead.

      Chapter Five

      Sam will have been dead for four months tomorrow. God, it isn’t getting any easier. Everyone who said that it got easier was lying.

      Lately, I’ve been stuck in a painful toss-up between wanting time to pass quicker and wanting to be able to turn back the clock. I’ve heard that as time goes along, the pain of loss fades into a dull ache, and eventually, you all but forget that they’re not there.

      But I don’t want to forget. Part of me likes that I miss Sam—and a scarier part of me likes how much it hurts.

      It is, after all, my fault that he’s dead.

      But, God, what I wouldn’t give for just ten more minutes with Sam.

      As I drift off to sleep, I realize how much worse I’ve gotten and how I haven’t managed to shed a single tear over the loss. At this point, I’m not sure I could cry for Sam if I tried.

      I wish I could. You’re supposed to mourn the dead.

      And Sam is dead.

      *****

      Just three days after our run-in at the library, I saw Sam again. I was shocked, to say the least, to find that I was happy to see him.

      I walked in to Jay’s Café, planning on getting a coffee and going for a walk, when I noticed a familiar form sitting near my usual spot; however, all thoughts of walking left my mind.

      As I ordered a coffee—black, in an attempt to get to know Sam better—I figured it was about time for me to return the favor and make an effort to talk to Sam. When my drink arrived, I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and stalked over toward the lone figure by the window without a second thought. Not trusting myself to speak, I silently pulled out the chair next to Sam and sat down. Although his eyes never left the page of the book he was reading, I saw the ghost of a smile make its way across Sam’s mouth.

      “That you, kid?” he asked, keeping his eyes trained on his book.

      I nodded. “Yeah, it’s me.”

      Sam’s eyes flitted away from his page, and for a fraction of a second, our eyes met.

      I’ve never been good at reading expression, but I would be willing to bet that I saw a hint of gratitude inside Sam’s cold eyes.

      Without another word, Sam turned his attention back to his book, a thin red book titled Slaughterhouse-Five. After a few minutes of silence that wasn’t entirely uncomfortable, I cleared my throat.

      “Any good?”

      “Confusing. Requires full attention,” he deadpanned. Surprised at the sting following his words, I nodded in understanding.

      Sam blinked and looked up at me. “Wait. I’m sorry. That came out wrong.”

      “What?” I asked, confused.

      “All I meant was”—Sam sighed—“it’s a complicated plot. I wasn’t trying to be…” his voice trailed off, and he sighed again, shoulders slumping slightly. “Erm,” he cleared his throat. “You know.” He looked almost sheepish.

      I smiled at