How Much Time Do We Have?

“What do you think of death?”

“I don’t.”

“Never?”

“Rarely.”

“Rarely?”

“Never. Why?” His frosty blue eyes narrowed, thick eyebrows scrunching together. I looked away.

“Just wondering.” Not really though. Why don’t I just tell him?

“Well, what do you think?”

“I think it’s inevitable.”

“That’s a little depressing.”
Life’s a little depressing, if you haven’t noticed.

“It’s true, though,” I glanced up at him. “If you did think about it, would you be afraid?”

His eyes were perfect. Pale and clear, with hints of an almost impossible wine shade hiding around the smoky, melting irises; they clouded. He shut them and answered, “Yes.”

“Why?” What do you have to be afraid of? You’re a freaking saint. Only good things are allowed to come to you. Bad things come through me.

He sighed and leaned back on the black bench. One lamppost permitted me to see him slowly part his lips.

“How much time do we have?” Please don’t ask that again.
“Not a lot.”
“I don’t know what happens next- where we go. It’s human nature to be afraid of the unknown.”

“Human nature is dumb. But ok.”

He sat up straighter and wiped his palms on his jeans. “Are you afraid?”

“I’m terrified,” I answered. His fingers twitched and he clenched his fists. At least I have reason to be.

“Why?”

I shut my eyes and take a breath. “I’m terrified that the day we die, we just cease to exist.”

Silence flooded into the hot and humid air, attacking our unconscious minds. It remained for only a moment, before he spoke again.

“What do you mean?”

“That we just disappear. Nothing happens in the world because we’re gone- no extra gust of wind, or crackle in the fireplace, or early breaking of a wave in the ocean. No change in the world, aside from us just leaving, and going nowhere. I’m afraid we just vanish, not affecting anything.” I said, voice shaking.

“You’re afraid you won’t have changed the world before you go?” he asked, taking my shaking hand. I nodded. He laughed. “You have, though.”

“Why are you laughing?”

“How much time do we have?” Please, not again.
“Not enough.” Honesty’s the best policy, right?
“You’ve changed so much in the world! And even if you think you haven’t, you have ages until the day you die. You can do anything in that time.” More like one hundred days. Fourteen of them probably spent in bed coughing and moaning.
“It’s not that though. I’m not exactly afraid that I won’t do enough before I die- I’m afraid of what happens after we’re gone. I guess it’s the whole, ‘where do we go?’ thing. Where do you think we go?” I need to know that you think there’s a good place. You’re always right. Please make me less scared.
“Christianity and other religions say Heaven or Hell, right? I say, I don’t know. No matter how depressing it is, you’re right. Death is inevitable, and I wish we had control over what happens, but I don’t think we do. You?” He let go of my hand and crossed his arms, eyes glimmering in the light.
“I want to say I believe in Heaven or Hell, but if there is a Heaven, and we’ve been good all our lives, to the point we want to die, what’s keeping us from killing ourselves before age or accidents or illness get the chance? Why isn’t every religious person suicidal once they turn 80 and are too weak and pathetic to walk to the bathroom? Why do we let ourselves feel pain when we know, if we behave, there’s a painless world ahead? I wish I could believe there’s this wonderful ever-after, but why should we go through so much crud to get there-”
“Whoa, breathe, Sidney!” he interrupted, clapping his hand over my mouth. I grimaced and pulled away.
“How much time do we have?” I asked sheepishly.
“Plenty. Now finish, but slow down.” No, we don’t. I have to tell him. Now. I can’t wait ninety-nine days. I can’t wait another day. I need to tell him now. But- I can’t. I have to. I can’t. Yes I can. I have to. Ready or not…
“I think, after we die,” I took a deep breath, pleasing him, “we’re just gone. I’m scared about that. I want there to be somewhere we go. I want it to be good, like Heaven’s supposed to be, but if I believe in Heaven, why shouldn’t I go kill myself before the cancer does-”
Silence. His eyes froze over, colder and harsher than ever. I saw his nails dig into his arms; teeth bite hard into his chapped lips; legs stop shaking; heart start pounding. He’s shutting down. God, I’m such an idiot.
“I have cancer.” I whispered. More silence. His lips parted, slowly, and he let out six words:
“How much time do we have?” We?
“We?”
“How much time do we have?” he repeated.
“One hundred days,” I murmured, “as of tomorrow.” There. Done. My eyes flooded and I couldn’t breathe.
The light from the streetlamp flickered and went out, leaving us in total darkness, but it didn’t make a difference. His hurt face was raw in my mind. I hurt him. I hurt him bad. I’m such an awful friend. I hurt the ones I love. I hate this. I hate what I’ve done. I hate this stupid inoperable cancer. In a few weeks, I’m gonna be stuck in bed. He’s gonna be by my side, because he’s the greatest person on the planet. But he hates me. Right now, he’s gonna get up and walk away. He’s gonna leave until I’m dying, and then reassure me that it’s okay, that he still loves me. He’s gonna walk away and come back and pretend he still loves me.
Suddenly, I felt his strong arms wrap around me, pulling me from the back of the bench. He held me so close I could feel the tears falling from his perfect face.
“How much time do we have?” If he answers, he still loves me. Please answer.
“All the time in the world.”