dreams of yore are nothing more than a chilled mischievous smile
Sudden Poll! Break my heart. Recommend a song, a story, a novel, a poem, an article, a website. Tell a heartrending anecdote. Film is acceptable, but not my preferred format. Bonus points if I cry
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When I'm told he's in hospital, I think that it's a minor inconvenience, a routine check or somesuch. I don't worry about him because, hey. It's Lukas. Jabba. Nothing can bring Jabba down.
Months later, my mother tells me Lukas is still in hospital. So as soon as I'm back home from Wiener Neustadt I head to the hospital to see him. The doctor refuses to let me speak to him because he's not in the condition to talk. I call his mother, asking her for an explanation. She explains things.
Two weeks later, I get to meet Lukas again. He's in a hospital bed. Every single trace of fat in his body is gone. He's more skinny than I ever was. He tells me the reason, and he tells me about tomorrow's surgery.
There's a chess set next to his hospital bed. I ask him who he's playing with.
"Nobody.", he replies. "But you want to be properly prepared and equipped when Grim Reaper arrives. He might demand a match of wits." So then we discuss how to best stat Death using the nWoD system. He's arguing for proper stats, I insist that Death is a plot device not in need of stats. In the end, we agree to disagree. We play Chess. I win. He challenges me to a rematch at a later date.
His last words to me are "Next time, by the way, bring a Bloody Mary. They don't serve them here. Besides, you still owe me. Cheap bastard.". I don't want him to see my sad, wet face, so I leave him (keeping my perceived dignity is of higher priority to me than talking to him.)
That's the last time I saw him. They bury him a few days after that (early last week). So I clear my name of his evil insinuations ("Cheap Bastard!") once and for all by pouring a Bloody Mary over the flowers of his grave.
I should be happy for him. He's in a better place.
Well, possibly. I'm trying to think of what he must be doing right now. There's practically only one feasible scenario that comes to my mind: I imagine him sitting next to a beer volcano, broadcasting his thoughts down to the people of this planet.
"It's all true! The Flying Spaghetti Monster is the Source of All. DON'T YOU SEE???"
I'm ok with that, though. There is no reason to grieve, when I know as a fact that the moment I start mourning his death, he'll come back down as a ghost to haunt me. And who wants that? Definitely not me.
That's why I'm sipping my Bloody Mary right now as I'm typing, thinking of the last time we both had our favourite cocktail, about how he must have died with a smile or a grin, high from the narcotics. About him being reincarnated in the body of a toad swimming in the local river. That's Karma in action.
Besides, we still have to play that last chess game.
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It was also a darn brave thing to do. There's noone else I could think of who might have the composure to calmly discuss gaming stuff on death's bed. It's incredible. At the time it happened, it was a totally surreal experience for me.
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