The Documentary ' The Blanket '

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The blanket was a scratchy, uncomfortable, way too heavy, and the color of pepto bismol. Still, it smelled like him and so Nico tightened the wool fabric around himself. Somewhere in the distance he could hear the sound of a television playing. Was it his? The TV was always on wasn’t it? But the sound was so distorted it couldn’t possibly in the lounge with him. If the TV were on in here, it wouldn’t sound like it was underwater. The TV couldn’t possibly be on.

Except the TV was on, something Nico found out when he looked up from his now cold pasta to find a news anchor on the screen. There was a picture of a mug shot in the corner of a screen, a bald man with beady eyes and a tattoo curling from his eyebrow to around his throat.

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“He’s dead.” Nico’s voice was stronger than he expected, but shaky nonetheless. “I’m sorry if my moping is bothering you, but my boyfriend is dead and it’s my fault.”

Derek was obviously exasperated by this speech. Jason’s suicide was the only thing Nico had talked about since it happened. He removed himself from the table and walked to the other side of the room.

“It’s his fault, technically,” Derek insisted, picking at his nails like the topic bored him. “I mean he’s the one who pulled the trigger.”

The image of Jason’s lifeless body bleeding out on the floor of their bedroom flashed across Nico’s mind. Something was making it harder to breathe, something constricting his chest, every time he thought about walking home to their shared apartment, only to find his boyfriend dead, his desk empty save for the note with Nico’s name written on it.

The note, the last remaining piece of Jason Grace, it tore Nico’s heart to shreds. Jason had known, of course he’d known, he always knew. But he stayed silent, allowing Nico to drive the dagger in more. And Derek, god, Derek was still here, standing in the lounge, standing in his place.

“He killed himself because I was sleeping with you.” Not that Derek needed a reminder. He was well aware of why Jason offed himself. It was written there on the letter, in plain black ink. No questions remained.

None of his friends offered their consolations, why should they? Nico doesn’t blame them.

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