I have a friend. He has a Christian name, as well as a middle name and a surname. My name is not relevant, and for the record, my religious beliefs are far from Christian. As far as I’m aware, I don’t hold any at all. For the sake of this retelling, I will call my friend Jules. Given what happened, I think that it’s safe to say he holds no religious beliefs either. I’d like to make it clear that I have never told another living soul about any of what I have written here, especially what happened after school on Friday the 29th of April, two days ago. Not for a moment do I expect any of you to believe a word of this, but I have nobody else to tell, and I must tell someone.
I came to befriend Jules at the beginning of last year, which happened to be my freshman year in high school. I was always a quiet kid, not shy but not as outgoing as many of my peers. I never did quite understand how some of them could talk endlessly to seemingly anyone that cared to listen. Jules stood out to me in the way that he didn’t stand out at all. He seemed always somewhat withdrawn, yet in a thoughtful way, as if he preferred to deliberate the inner workings of his mind amongst himself instead of with others. In this respect, I felt naturally drawn to him, and not to my surprise, we became friends rather quickly. It wasn’t very far into the beginning of that first term before we realised just how much we had in common.
Now, before I go ahead and presumably destroy all credibility you may hold in my words, I’d like to get a couple of things off my mind. I have quite often imagined myself explaining this whole thing to someone else. What I would say, how I would describe it. Sometimes I imagine I am being interviewed, sometimes I picture myself telling this to my future girlfriend, if I ever manage to get one. I’ve attempted to put these things into words many times before, but the words never seem to accurately portray just what is happening, so I delete it all. I have resolved that no matter how hard I try, I will never successfully articulate this phenomenon with words. Here is my attempt anyway.
Jules and I have our own exclusive language which we use to speak to one another, a language I believe we alone have the ability to use. I use the word speak, but the thing is, we don’t actually use words to communicate at all. You see, we are able to communicate using only our eyes. Now, as far as the traditional idea of language goes, as in translating thoughts and emotions into words, this is entirely different. We relay our emotions and thoughts to one another without having to translate them into words. In this sense, our language is really what all languages strive to be, and yet never can be. It is a far more efficient and satisfying way to connect with someone. For instance, have you ever just wished you could step inside someone else’s shoes, or that someone could feel the same way you are feeling? Exactly. Now I will say this, fully aware of how ludicrous and corny it sounds, but it really is as if mine and Jules’ souls are in direct correspondence with another. I mean, I’m sure you’ve heard the phrase “eyes are the windows to ones’ soul”, right?
I am going to refrain from explaining just how we came to realise this ability we share, as is rather off topic in regards to the whole point of this retelling. Now, this ability resulted in us becoming quite close friends, even closer than we were to begin with. I always thought I knew Jules better than anyone alive knew anyone else, and vice versa. This being said, I believe that Jules likely knows me a whole lot better than I know him. You see, having the ability to practically see into one another’s souls, there came a natural inclination towards privacy. The thing was, he seemed to be very adept at putting walls up in-between me and the parts of himself he’d like to keep to himself. I was not so skilful at this. That is why, when I looked into Jules’ eyes on Friday afternoon, I was quite shocked to find those particular defences of his down.
It was raining that afternoon, and we sat on opposite aisles of the bus on our way home from school. We both lived close by to one another, near the outskirts of town, so most of the kids had already gotten off at their stops. Jules was looking out the window on his side, presumably caught in a daydream induced by the passing scenery and the moody ambience of a rainy afternoon. The light outside was beginning to fade by that time of day, so I was able to see the reflection of his face in the glass of the window quite clearly. That was how I was able to see his eyes. Please excuse my profanity, I always did find trouble in finding the right words to frame my emotions, but what I saw in those eyes scared the absolute shit out of me.
Let me make this clear; I am no horror writer. This isn’t some piece of fiction I have whipped up in order to scare you. No, I didn’t gaze into his eyes and see Dante’s’ 9 circles of hell. No, there wasn’t a vision or prophecy of some impending apocalyptic event. What I saw, or more accurately felt, in Jules’ eyes, reflecting off that dark bus window, was nothing. Absolutely nothing at all. An empty cup, although empty, is still a cup. You could even say it was full of air. A person doing nothing can, realistically, never actually be doing nothing. For instance they may just be sitting, or sleeping, but they are still doing something. This was different. There was no desire, none of the usual spontaneous ideas or ramblings that I came to expect from Jules. It was as if the friend I had come to share this incredible ability and connection with was entirely a lie. What remained was his true nature, the state he falls into when not required to act alive. The only way I can come close to explaining it is that it was like an empty shop in the middle of the night, or a computer unplugged from the wall. It felt so unnaturally cold and void that I looked away almost immediately and proceeded to stare out my own window in a state of utter shock and depression. I said nothing the rest of the bus trip home, and got off at my stop without saying goodbye.
That was Friday. I haven’t seen him since. After switching between nervously pacing my room and lying catatonically on my bed for what seemed like two whole days without sleep, I decided what to do. I called him earlier today to confront him. I asked him all the questions that had domineered my conscious mind since that afternoon. He never gave me a single answer. He said that some things are better explained in person, eye to eye. We have planned to meet at the old abandoned country club, a place we go to hang out and get away from the dreary urban landscaping of our suburban neighbourhood. I like the place because there is never anybody there. After I submit this, I’m leaving to go meet him. I hope to let you know how it goes.