It's so quiet.

He's dead. I can't bring myself to believe it, but it didn't come as a surprise either. I think I never really let myself consider the possibility before, yet on some level I must have always known this day would come.

It's entirely logical, after all. He's older, eats things you wouldn't believe, so anal and repressed it must hurt to be him. And sometimes just being what he is can be the most dangerous thing in the world. There are more garbage trucks in the world than I can protect him from.

Never thought about outliving him. That has to be one of the most stupid things I've ever done. What do I do now?

God, it's so quiet. Not that he was ever noisy, but it's usually the little things you get used to, isn't it? I keep expecting him to grumble or something, every time I do something he would have found strange. Complain about my quirks, snort at something I said, or freeze in place until he could identify the threat. Maybe just the sounds he makes when he's pretending to listen to my lectures. Little things like that.

I saw the truck, thundering down the asphalt like it was the Wild Hunt, and maybe it was. I saw him, zoning as he stood frozen in its path. I saw...

I think I'm going crazy. I talk a lot, to myself or to the others who come, worried, trying to console me, but it's hollow noise. It doesn't fill the silence, it echoes in my soul.

I can't bear the silence.

---------------

"What the--Jim, did you see that?" Blair stopped and stared at the ground, shocked and not a little appalled. "It wasn't in your path, and it turned around and ran under your foot!"

"Damn," swore Jim, scraping the crushed cockroach off his sole.

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