Answer Me, Brian

Roger pounded fiercely on the door to Brian’s flat. No reply. He pounded even harder.

“Brian? Brian!  Briaaaaaan! Briaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan! Answer me Brian!”

His voice cracked and he leant against the doorframe, panting. This wouldn’t do – he had to get to his Brian. He started pushing on the windows, even contemplating smashing one to get in, until at last he found an unlocked one. He gently slid it up and maneuvered himself into a darkened spare bedroom. Roger could faintly hear something, and ventured out to the corridor, tripping over two boxes on the way. He could hear the noise more clearly now; it was Hendrix, Brian’s idol. Roger followed the sound to a closed door – Brian’s bedroom, presumably. Tapping gently at the door, he peered inside and saw nothing except the record player going. For some reason, the light had been turned off. The bed hadn’t been slept in yet and there were no clothes left about anywhere in sight.

Roger began to panic. Where was his Brian? Something was wrong and he knew he needed his Brian. He turned the record player off and was about to leave the room when something suddenly caught his eye. The light of the ensuite bathroom was glowing from under the door, but there was still no noise emanating from it. He tentatively knocked on the door, his heart hammering and his hands shaking violently. No response.  

He closed his eyes and pushed open the door. Roger nearly fainted at the sight that met him, clutching frantically at the door handle. He saw his Brian lying in the bathtub. His own Brian was lying fully-clothed (in his usual shirt, jacket, and flared trousers) in a bathtub half-filled with water and – blood. Roger felt sick in his stomach. A bloody blade was clasped in his Brian’s hand. Roger knelt by the tub, panting loudly and on the verge of wailing to the heavens, and prised it from the hand. His Brian’s cold, cold hand. Silent tears streaming down his face, he reached over and closed his Brian’s blank unseeing eyes, as they would be closed for the last time.

Roger saw his Brian lying so still in the tub, with the tips of his curly hair dipped in the water, and the blood seeping from the deep cuts in his wrists. Roger wanted to hug his Brian, caress his Brian. He had to tell Brian that it was alright. Roger wanted – no, needed – to tell his Brian that it was alright. Yet now he couldn’t, for right now, right here, his Brian was lying dead.