Oh god, where to begin...
Sam turned up for his appointment today, right on time. I remember he looked calmer than usual, though that might have been wishful thinking. He'd been thinking a lot about our last session, and how it had ended. He said he wished I was right, about the Beach, and what it meant to be a repatriate. That he appreciated the time we'd spent together--that I'd spent listening to his stories.
And then...and then he pulled out a syringe. He was still so calm, though at that point I sure wasn't. He said it wasn't all in his head, and that he could prove it. And then he stuck the needle in his chest.
It all happened so fast. I froze in my chair as he went into convulsions, eventually falling out of his seat. I ran to him, then, as he was laying on the floor, motionless. I removed the syringe and preformed chest compressions, but it was too late. I sat there, next to him, for what felt like an eternity... And then he opened his eyes and sat up, still wearing that same calm expression. There was another handprint on his arm--a fresh one. Left by the dead, he'd told me before.
"I'm a repatriate," he said. "Every time I die, I get stuck in-between, and then come back." He was searching my eyes now, reaching for the words as much as they were struggling to come out. "That world won't have me, and neither will this one. I'm only free to come and go when I'm with her. With Amelie..."
There were tears in his eyes. He looked so lonely, so...I started crying, too. I'd taken his hand in mine without realizing it, but he didn't pull away. I squeezed, and he squeezed back.
He needs someone he can be close to, be intimate with. Someone outside his family. Someone who isn't Bridget, or Amelie. Someone to whom he can reveal the whole of himself, someone who'll devote themselves to him.
I don't remember what I said, but I remember that he nodded. That he smiled. That we held each other for a long, long time...