Sam is Dead. Hannah Kirkell

and “deserved what was coming to him.” I only wish I wasn’t paraphrasing.

      Sam didn’t deserve what happened to him, right?

      Oh, well. It’s almost like it doesn’t even matter. Nothing I—or anyone for that matter—could say would make people remember Sam differently. After all, that was how he acted.

      I wonder, had our circumstances been different and had I not known Sam, would I be another person who let out a sigh of relief when they read about Sam’s death in the paper?

      Because Sam is dead.

      *****

      I avoided the coffee shop for days after our awkward encounter. I don’t remember exactly what I was thinking, but I was doing what all young men and women do at one point or another in their lives: I was running from my problems.

      This odd relationship I had with Sam was certainly a problem. Not an hour passed without bringing thoughts of Sam. I would wonder how he was doing, where he was, and, of course, if he was truly a murderer.

      So after days of running away from my problems and hiding behind the shield of naivety, I decided to return to the coffee shop.

      As I walked in the doors, I remember thinking, What am I doing? Which was closely followed by, Well, if he’s not here, then this’ll be the end of it. I’ll find somewhere else to get coffee.

      Fortunately for my taste buds, Sam was exactly where I saw him last: sitting at my spot by the window. The bleak look in his eyes made me question how many days he’d sat there before I finally went back in.

      When he saw me, his eyes lit up. It shocked me that he didn’t try to hide it more, him being Sam and all. Sam was too proud to verbally say anything, but his eyes seemed to beg me to go over to him. Now, I’ve never been too good at reading eyes either, so he also may have been just very disappointed about the local hockey team’s loss the previous night.

      To this day, I don’t know what exactly made me walk over to him. Was it pity? Was it curiosity?

      Either way, I found myself sitting next to Sam once again. When I sat down, he seemed to relax—at least to a certain extent. His shoulders loosened a bit, but I could feel his leg shaking through the floor.

      Once again, we sat in silence until I couldn’t bear it anymore. Instead of walking out, this time, I opted to speak.

      “I can’t take this anymore.”

      He seemed shocked that I spoke. “What?”

      “We can’t just keep sitting here in awkward silence for the rest of our lives.”

      “We, uh, we can’t?”

      I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

      “No. Come on, you can’t tell me this doesn’t suck for you. It sucks for you too, right?”

      Sam snorted. “Very eloquent.”

      “Whatever!” I huffed. “Come on, say something.”

      He didn’t.

      “Fine. I’ll go first. Hi, Sam, how are you? Long time no see. Now, are you going to answer me, or do I have to deepen my voice and imitate you to save myself from a one-sided conversation?”

      Sam and I were both visibly shocked by my boldness.

      “Uh, I’m fine,” Sam drawled. He seemed uncomfortable, and for some reason, I took pride in that.

      “Very responsive,” I mocked.

      Sam rolled his eyes and shot me a half-hearted glare. “Yeah, well, what can I say?” Sam sighed. “I’m just a responsive guy.”

      “Clearly.” Somehow, I was able to mentally kick myself while maintaining a cool exterior.

      Neither of us said another word for a few minutes, and I lost the courage I had.

      “Well, I tried,” I stated. I began to stand up but stopped when Sam grabbed my arm.

      “Wait!” he blurted out. If possible, I think Sam may have been more shocked than I was. He let go of my arm and cleared his throat. “Um, wait, Eric, don’t go just yet.”

      I stopped. “What is it?” I hope I was able to keep the excitement out of my voice, but knowing my track record, I probably sounded like a hopeful child that was just told he’d be getting ice cream.

      “I don’t know. I just…” His voice trailed off. “I don’t want it to be like this.”

      My heartbeat quickened. “What do you mean?”

      Sam looked frustrated. “I don’t know!” he growled. Upon seeing my face, probably stricken with terror, he took a deep breath and put his head into his hands. “I don’t know.”

      I tried to keep my eyes looking at anything but Sam. “Okay.” To my surprise, it seemed like Sam was having something of a panic attack. “Sam? You, uh, you all right?”

      “No.”

      It scared me how broken his voice sounded.

      “Hey, uh, it’s all right, you’re all right.” I racked my brain in a futile attempt to remember what to do if someone was having a panic attack. Nothing came to mind. “Deep breaths.”

      “Don’t patronize me,” Sam snapped. “Just stop. If you want to hate me, fine. Do that. But don’t…” His voice trailed off again, and his shoulders heaved. He seemed unable to finish his sentence. Sam grabbed at his hair, breathing heavily.

      So I stopped talking. I sat silently beside Sam, trying desperately to think about anything other than Sam, who was sitting right next to me, well, in the middle of a panic attack. I’m not sure how much time passed, but presently, Sam calmed down. He loosened his grip on his hair and eventually let go altogether. His breath became less erratic, and he started breathing easier.

      After Sam returned to normal, I stood and patted his shoulder awkwardly. “Well, I have to go. I’ve got homework, but I’ll, uh, I’ll see you around, okay, Sam?”

      He looked up at me and nodded. “All right. I’ll see you, kid.” And with that, Sam returned his head to his hands.

      Once again, I walked away and didn’t look back.

      *****

      I wish I could go back in time with what I know now. I could probably help Sam—at least, I could do more than I was able to back then. I would eventually learn that Sam can work through them on his own, but that it would be best for me to stay with him while he goes through it.

      That doesn’t matter anymore. Sam is dead, and there is nothing one can do to help the dead.