The First Homecoming

I went to a wake for my friend’s uncle once. A somber affair – the uncle had purposely overdosed – and so I quietly chatted in the back with a few of my friends. My one friend had just come back from school in Virginia and seemed the least bit interested and the least bit touched by the tragedy. When I pressed him, he told us a story, a story of his schoolmate

This schoolmate had been away from home since graduation, physically and socially, never texting or calling his high school friends since they parted ways. My friend thought he was seeking an escape, trying to explore himself, but do I wish he stayed in touch.

After three years, this schoolmate finally made his homecoming. His family, who had periodically visited him, greeted him with open hugs and cheered. His younger sister showed him her drawings; his younger brother showed him his progress on a video game. Overjoyed, the schoolmate received a text from his best friend, though I’d consider him a former friend. They planned a dinner date reunion in honor of his homecoming. This was the last message my friend would get from his schoolmate. The rest of his texts went unanswered.

It seems that the schoolmate indeed went to his old friend’s home. They talked for at least an hour while sipping drinks. Then the old friend went mad; you see, this old friend had lost his parents during the college years and felt abandoned by this schoolmate. At least that’s what the police said. They found the schoolmate’s body at midnight, stabbed thrice in the gut by a kitchen knife.

I asked my friend why this guy would kill his best friend, why he wouldn’t be overjoyed at his return. My friend shrugged and pondered why friends kill friends, why relatives end their lives, why people die when their children are still children. My friend whose uncle died overheard us, and joined us. We were worried he’d be upset, but he wasn’t. He smiled. My friend whose uncle had overdosed hugged my friend whose schoolmate had been murdered. It was a lovely sight.

I felt nothing happy though. I felt anxiety, fear, and fright. How could I know what my friends were thinking? How could I know if they all planned to kill themselves, or if they planned to kill ​me​? How could I listen to that story and sit at this wake and think I know anything anymore, that I can tell happiness from sadness, jokes from threats? I could never again tell myself that most people are alright, and just I am insane

Maybe a hug is the only way to keep the darkness at bay.