Persistent - 1. Persistent

I had a friend.

'Had' is the keyword here. We weren't anymore. Some disagreements and differences of opinion skewed this view. I'm afraid our friendship is one-sided. I miss him dearly, my friend, a constant companion since childhood, often the brash one between the two of us. I daresay reckless, he often dove into trouble faster than I could pull him out of it.

It was harmless childhood fights back then, although harmless was relative. And often they were for my benefit. I wasn't like other kids, and I was always the odd one out because of it. He made himself a knight to defend my honor, but he'd use anything in his arsenal to do it. When he started tossing furniture, I put my body on the line. I was persistent, and I wouldn't budge, all for him.

I suppose that was where it began, when we took a turn from childish innocence. Often it was me swaying him to stop from a rampage, from his fury and his hasty decisions. I was the voice of reason, the one who always told him to stop when he needed to. I was his one true friend, through and through. Persistent to the very end.

Then he gained more friends, more and more. And as his circle amassed, I was slowly pushed to the side. Trade one for a dozen. I figured it was inevitable, and under normal circumstances I wouldn't mind; it was a fact of life, after all. But I didn't trust his friends, not one bit. They were the bad crowd, often falling behind his bravado, his machismo.

But as much as he shunned me, as much as he forgot about me, he was still my friend, even if I wasn't his. In that respect, I was... persistent. Some days, I tried to reason with him that it didn't matter, but he didn't listen. Like always. Any other time, I would have let it slide, but one night, I told him off.

That was my first mistake.

The fist that came at me struck with the impact of a bullet. I staggered back, stunned, reaching for my nose and feeling the blood run from it. The next blow came and my head struck the hardwood floor. I rose, persistent, and challenged him with my eyes.

That was my second mistake.

I saw rage there, and a different person entirely. His veins throbbed at his neck, at his arms, at his head, and I knew I was facing down a beast, not my friend. But I knew he was there, and I was stubborn, persistent, so I rose, and I stood my ground, even as he tackled me to the floor.

I did my best to resist, but from the beginning, I knew I was no match. He was taller, bigger, heavier, and stronger. I was just persistent. I guess that was why I kept holding on, fighting. Nothing stopped him, and if I didn't persist, who would?

I didn't give up on him, even as that mad rage overcame him.

Even as those iron hands gripped my slender neck.

Even as the world turned black and cold.

Even as the sound left my ears.

Even as the world came back, muted but present, painting me his picture. A picture of lament and regret cradling the head of my corpse, the rest of my body limp and empty. The sight broke my spirit, but I knew that boy, crying over a battered body. I knew he was back.

He called the police himself, reported the entire incident. I was proud of him, but grieved how it had to go this far for him to gain his senses. I could have left it at that, and let him learn on his own now but, I was persistent. I knew prison was no safe place, so I watched him.

I watched him with all my heart, in all his days, hoping for his peace. It was a rough start, but I was glad he pulled through. His sentence was a good ten years, but he had a year off for good behavior. His fights were still more violent than I'd like but less initiated, and less frequent. At night, every now and then, I'd visit his dreams. I would sit at his bedside and see him grieving over me. I couldn't tell him the truth of my body, that my grave would never come to be.

He tried to find my grave, to grieve properly, but everyone told him how my corpse was cremated and scattered by a friend. How my family long forgot about me. Honestly, I'd hoped to have told him better, but I was afraid. I knew the look in his face: a flash of unbridled rage. But, to my surprise, he collected himself and merely wept. Truly and dutifully wept for me. If I had eyes that day, I would have cried with him.

When life started turning around for him when he was released, I felt I could rest easy. I visited him one final dream, and he'd ask me if I forgave him. Of course, I told him yes, and reminded him how silly he was to have to ask that.

He lived his life, and I watched from beyond. I watched him grow old and have kids, and every now and then I think those little ones saw me, but that was impossible, wasn't it?

As they all grew older-- he, his wife, his children-- I came to visit him one more time. It wasn't for a dream, however. I knew what was coming. We all did, and I think everyone dreaded it.

Here laid a shell of a man, tired but whole. And here I stood, watching for that final moment. He closed his eyes, for what I knew would be the last time. After a while, he found himself in my arms, and he cried in grief and relief. He asked me why I was there, and I told him I didn't give up on him. Never did.

I had a friend. I was persistent.

And now he's come back to me.