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Todd thought it was a joke at first.
A sick prank. A game that Todd got dragged into.
It only truly hit him that it wasn't a joke when he saw the look on their faces. Charlie's was white as a sheet with red splotches, probably from rubbing his face or wiping his tears away. He was crying. Meeks, Pitts, and Knox weren't. Their look of pure shock was enough. It was real. Neil was dead.
When Charlie first breathed the words to him, Todd laughed. He expected Neil to come walking in right after, or maybe jump out from behind something. When Neil didn't appear, and none of the others joined his laughter, his smile quickly faded.
"Neil's what?"
"He's dead. He killed himself." Charlie's voice was hoarse.
"He's not dead. He was just at his play. He was supposed to come home soon," Todd tried to argue. His hands had started to shake. "He's not dead. You're lying." He suddenly felt very hot, pushing his covers from his lap and sitting up. "You're lying."
He got out of bed, his legs almost giving way underneath him when he stood. "He's not dead. He's not. I'm gonna go find him. He came home. He came home." The sky was just beginning to lighten outside the window. The sun had yet to rise. It had to have been around 5 A.M. Todd was barely awake, his brain refusing to even consider for a moment that Neil hadn't come home. Todd didn't know when he had begun to call Welton home. His house with his parents never truly felt like home. Home was with Neil, with the Poets.
"Come with me. Come help me find him. It snowed last night, maybe his car got stuck or something. He's coming," Todd said as he pulled on his long coat, the same one he wore to each meeting with the Poets. Charlie placed his hand on Todd's arm.
"Todd, he's dead."
Todd roughly shoved Charlie's hand off of him. "Goddammit, Charlie, stop lying to me."
Charlie stepped in front of Todd when he moved towards the door. "He shot himself. He's not coming," Charlie hissed through gritted teeth, his voice breaking, tears pouring down his face.
Todd pushed past him and the others in the door. "Just come help me find him. Please. You'll see."
The early morning winter air was harsh on Todd's face. The other boys had gathered their coats and followed after Todd into the courtyard just outside his dorm room. The sinking feeling in his chest grew worse with each step. He hadn't truly been expecting Neil to be waiting on the dock for him, but some part of him held onto a small shred of hope that maybe he was okay. When he saw that Neil wasn't on the dock, his brain finally recognized that he would never be there again. Neil wouldn't ever again sit at his desk, glasses on, face buried in a book of poetry. He would never again sit in the windowsill to their room and read through his script. He would never walk down to the dock again, Todd trailing behind him, shouting lines from his play into the wind.
Todd stopped cold in his tracks, forgetting how to make himself walk. His head spun. He couldn't comprehend that Neil, his Neil, his happy, lively, energetic Neil, had taken his own life. It made no sense to him. Just the morning before, Neil was a bundle of ecstatic nervous energy. He had run his lines with Todd one last time before the play, begging for reassurance that he would do well. Neil loved being alive. He loved the Poets, he loved acting, he loved poetry, he loved Todd. He wouldn't have killed himself. Todd refused to accept it.
He felt his throat start to burn as the contents of his stomach rose, spilling past his lips and into the snow beneath him. Todd collapsed, tears beginning to stream down his face, vomit on his chin. No, no, no, Neil can't be gone. Agony exploded in his chest and he let out a wail, taking handfuls of the snow he was kneeling in. He was covered in sweat despite the bitter cold. He felt hands on his back, knowing the Poets had come to comfort him. Knowing they were saying soft, comforting words of reassurance, though the only thing he could hear was the ringing in his head. Charlie wiped Todd's face with a handful of snow.
"He wouldn't. He wouldn't have killed himself," he gasped, turning to Charlie, who was on his right, and clinging onto his coat. "It had to have been his dad. It had to. Neil wouldn't have—he wouldn't—" His words were cut off by another wail. He felt like he was burning, drowning, suffocating, his skin on fire and his face wet and his lungs refusing to draw in any more air.
"He can't go. He can't. I still—need him. Need him so bad," Todd managed to choke out. One of Charlie's arms was around him, the fingers on his free hand brushing some of Todd's sweat-soaked hair off of his forehead. Todd felt like he would shatter if he didn't get away. He loved Charlie; he was his closest friend, but he needed Neil. Todd needed Neil's embrace, Neil's touch, Neil's fingers clearing his hair off of his face. He pushed himself up off the ground, slipping a little on the layer of ice that had frozen before the snow had covered it. He didn't even register that he had moved until he was at the dock.
His entire body hurt. He fell once more, the wooden boards of the dock creaking slightly beneath him. He curled onto his side, the dirty snow not even on his radar. He stared at the rest of the dock before him, knowing that Neil had stood there just a few days before. He felt like he was staring at a ghost.
He didn't know how long he lay there in the snow until a teacher came to gather him up. He vaguely remembered his friends coming, trying to urge him to stand, trying to drag him up off the ground, but failing to do so.
He didn't know who the teacher was. Todd recognized him, of course, but he couldn't grasp any new information. He was ushered into the teacher's office, handed a warm mug of something and a bundle of clothes. The teacher left the room, probably expecting Todd to change out of his snow-saturated, dirty pajamas, but he just stood in the center of the room, staring at the wall.
He felt like he couldn't think, couldn't move, couldn't breathe, only capable of crying. The sobs hadn't stopped the whole time. Todd's head and throat ached. The teacher returned to the room a while later, and upon seeing that Todd was still in his pajamas, started to talk to him. Todd couldn't register any words. They all sounded warbled, muffled, like they were reaching his ears but not entering any further into his brain.
There were no classes that day.
When Todd returned to his bedroom, Neil's bed was already stripped of the sheets. Todd slowly walked over to Neil's desk, papers and pencils still scattered along the surface. The half-finished Trigonometry worksheet that Neil had worked on just yesterday lay off to the side. Neil would never return to finish it. Todd trailed his fingers over one of the papers, tracing Neil's handwriting; the contrast between his perfect cursive and nearly illegible print. His tears rolled off of his face and soaked into the paper, causing the pen ink to bloom on the page. He curled his fingers into the paper, crumpling it slightly. It felt precious, like it had to be treasured and saved. Todd gathered all of the papers on Neil's desk, sorting them into a messy pile and placing it on his bed. He needed them. He needed any piece of Neil he could find.
He raided Neil's closet next. His clothes were neatly hung up and organized. On the shelves, there were some of Neil's personal belongings. His record player, his favorite books, an expensive watch his Mother had gifted him. Todd turned his attention back to the clothes, reaching out and touching one nearest to him, a dark green sweater that Todd knew was a bit baggy on Neil. He took it off of the hanger and slowly pulled it against his chest. He pressed his face into the fabric, taking the first full breath he had in hours. Neil's scent filled his nose, cigarettes and coffee and cologne. Todd had to bite his lip to keep a loud cry from erupting.
He stumbled over to Neil's bed, crumpling onto the bare mattress, clinging to the sweater like he'd die if he let go. He could feel his tears soaking into it but couldn't bring himself to pull away. For a split second, lying in Neil's bed, holding his sweater, breathing him in, Todd could almost pretend that Neil was there. That Neil was lying in bed with him, his arms around Todd, maybe a hand in Todd's hair—he always said he loved to play with it. Neil would wipe his tears away and hold him close and tell him everything would be alright.
But everything wasn't alright. Neil was gone. He wasn't there to hold Todd or kiss his forehead or run his fingers through his hair, and he never would be again.
"Please," Todd found himself whispering into the cloth, "Please come back." He didn't know what he was going to do with himself with Neil gone. Neil was his lifeline, his rock, his safety vest, and he was Neil's. He needed Neil, and Neil needed him.
Todd fell asleep that night on Neil's naked mattress, gripping onto his sweater, unable to do anything but weep and whisper, "Please," over and over.
All of the Poets were questioned by the school board due to their friendship with Neil and their alleged involvement in his death. Todd didn't think he was going to be able to speak. He found it impossible to talk to anyone or to stay engaged in a conversation.
Todd met with his friends in a cluttered supply closet before they would all get called, one by one, to get questioned. They all had cigarettes. Todd didn't smoke often—Neil discouraged him from it, to which Todd always called him a hypocrite. Neil was a regular smoker himself. Todd found himself reaching for cigarettes more and more often, now, usually with trembling fingers and his body wracked with violent sobs.
"Cameron's in there right now ratting us out. He's gonna tell Nolan everything. We're screwed," Charlie said, taking a long, slow drag of his cigarette.
Cameron came in shortly after. Charlie accused him of telling Nolan everything, which ascended into a loud argument, which led to Charlie punching Cameron hard in the nose. After Cameron left the room, Pitts began to argue with Charlie, with Knox and Meeks eventually joining in. Todd stayed silent, eyes fixed on a cardboard box, smoking his cigarette. He knew their friendship was doomed without Neil. Neil was their glue, their peacemaker, their leader. How would they ever survive something like this?
Todd was shocked to see his parents seated in Nolan's office. His mother turned and gave him a small smile. "Hello, darling," she greeted.
"Mom," Todd said, voice quiet. All he wanted to do was go to her, cry into her arms, receive comfort from one of the people he needed the most at that time. Instead, he sat in a chair at Nolan's desk as the old man turned to stare at him.
The questioning was agonizing. No part of Todd wanted to answer anything. He wanted to scream that none of this was because of the Dead Poets, that Neil wasn't dead because of him, that Nolan and his parents and everyone knew nothing about Neil. All he could do, though, was quietly sit and answer Nolan's questions.
When the paper came out, and the pen was handed to him, Todd hesitated. He didn't want to sign it. It would feel like betraying Neil. Betraying everything that Neil stood for, everything Neil loved.
"Sign the paper, Todd," came his father's voice from beside him when Todd made no move to put the pen to the paper.
His signature was shaky and barely legible. He felt like he failed Neil, failed the Poets, failed himself. Charlie was right—they were screwed.
Two weeks after Neil died, his family held a wake and a funeral. Todd wanted to vomit as he got dressed for it. It felt almost funny, cruelly ironic, dressing up to see the love of his life dead in a casket.
The school held their own pathetic excuse for a memorial a few days after Neil's death. All they did was talk about Neil as a student; his grades, his academic achievements, his excellence. Not once mentioned was his love for acting, his positive demeanor, his sense of humor, the way he loved everyone around him. Todd hated it. He hated the fake sympathy, the apologies, the way everyone acted like Neil was their best friend. None of them truly knew him. Not in the way Todd knew him.
Todd knew Neil better than Neil knew himself. He knew the way his big brown eyes lit up when he got excited, the way they rolled when he was playfully annoyed, the amount of love they held when Neil looked at Todd. Todd could recognize Neil by touch alone, Neil was always so gentle, his hands so warm against Todd's always-cold skin. He could predict which poem Neil would choose to read aloud at Dead Poets meetings, which questions he'd raise his hand to answer in class. Todd loved learning and memorizing the little things about Neil.
Todd nearly fainted when he saw Neil's body propped up in his casket. He refused to accept that it was actually Neil. He was too pale, too stoic; there wasn't enough warmth in his cheeks or enough of a smile for it to be Neil. It was as if a stranger had taken Neil's appearance for his own.
When it came time to say their last goodbyes, Todd couldn't find it in himself to look at Neil's face close up. He settled for staring at Neil's hand. Oh, how Todd longed to reach out, to stroke Neil's soft skin one last time, to take his hand. Todd knew he couldn't handle it. He knew he wouldn't be able to take the loss of warmth, the way that Neil's hand would surely be ice cold. Todd also didn't want anyone to see. He already had to beg Neil's parents to allow him to come—they partially blamed Todd for Neil's death. They said he encouraged Neil to take part in the play, that he pushed Neil to lie to his father, that he was, in the end, part of the reason why Neil was dead. Todd didn't want to push his luck and get kicked out for holding Neil's hand.
"Why did you do it?" Todd whispered, finally forcing himself to look at Neil's face. "Don't you know I still need you? Why did you think you could just go? I wasn't ready for you to go." He clung onto the side of the casket, feeling like he would pass out if he let go. "I still need you here. I still love you," his voice was nearly inaudible, praying that no one else could hear him. Tears began to flow down Todd's face, running onto his neck and soaking into the collar of his shirt. He sobbed, shutting his eyes tight, curling inwards slightly.
Todd wasn't able to cry much the week before. All he could do was stare. Stare at the wall, the floor, off into space whenever others spoke to him. His body refused to cry, forcing Todd to bottle up all of his anguish.
An elderly woman came up to Todd, placing her hand over his. "Honey, you've been here almost five minutes. Others are waiting." Todd opened his eyes and looked to his side, where a long line of people who were waiting to say goodbye stood. Todd blinked rapidly a few times, staring hard at Neil's face one last time, trying to commit every bit of it to memory. Praying that the image would stay with him forever. The woman began to gently lead him away by his arm.
Todd couldn't pay attention during the funeral. Neil's family members gave speeches, talking of how Neil was so intelligent, how he had so much potential, how he could have made everyone so proud. Todd had to step out. He felt like he was burning from the inside out and didn't want to have an outburst and disrupt the service. He managed to find a bathroom, walking over to the sinks and leaning heavily on one. His body felt too weak to support him any longer.
He looked at himself in the mirror for a moment, inspecting his face. His eyes were puffy from crying but also dark and sunken from weeks of sleepless nights. He looked thinner, his cheekbones more pronounced. Eating had no pleasure and only made him nauseous. He heard the bathroom door open and footsteps approach him. A glance from the corner of his eye confirmed that it was Charlie, as he'd suspected.
"I don't think I can do it," Todd spoke, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Charlie didn't hesitate to wrap Todd in a hug. "We'll get through it," he responded, his voice tearful.
"I can't. I can't, I need him. I need him so bad," Todd sobbed, his hands coming up to grip Charlie's shoulders.
"We'll get through it," Charlie repeated, more desperate this time.
"God, why did he leave us?" Todd whimpered, "Why did he think we would be okay without him?" He could feel Charlie shaking.
"I don't know, Todd. I don't know."
The letters were the only thing keeping Todd going.
He made it his personal mission to write letters to Neil. Every morning, Todd forced himself out of bed and over to Neil's desk, where he pulled out a sheet of paper and a pen.
The letters started out angry—angry at Neil for dying, angry at himself for not noticing how bad Neil was doing, angry at Neil's father, angry, angry, angry. The letters were usually crumpled up, torn apart, thrown aside in anger, only to be flattened out, taped together, or retrieved later.
January 20, 1960
Dear Neil,
I don't know how I'm still going. I don't know how I'm still waking up every day. I've started to hope I die in my sleep—not like we'd be together, though. You probably went somewhere better than I'll end up going. I can't eat. I can't sleep. All I can do is cry and think about you.
I've stolen some of your clothes. I lay in your bed. I use your pencils. Hope you don't mind.
Every day I wonder why you did this to me. To me, to the Poets, to your parents. Why did you think I would just be okay with you dead? Why did you think that I would be able to manage? I can't. I'm dying, myself, now. I hate you so much for leaving me. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. What did I do to deserve this? Why do I have to suffer too? Why didn't you just come to me?
If I flunk out of school I'm blaming you.
Miss you terribly,
Todd
The anger wore off after a few weeks and turned into pure, unfiltered agony. Todd was desperate. He wanted Neil back more than anything. All of the letters were tear-stained and wrinkled.
March 14, 1960
Dear Neil,
I need you back. I need you back now. All I can think about is you. All I dream about is you.
I have your pictures taped to the wall by my bed so when I wake up, I can see you first thing. I miss good-morning kisses. I miss waking up early to watch the sunset together. I miss sneaking out onto the roof before anyone else was awake so we could look at the trees.
It hurts so bad. All the time. It feels like there's a weight crushing my chest. It's like I'm in withdrawal.
I found your cologne bottle. I spray some on my pillow when I sleep so I can pretend it's you. Kind of pathetic, I know, but it's what I need right now. I miss you more than anything in the world. I just wish you could hold me one last time.
Always yours,
Todd
On days when the pain felt a little less excruciating, even just a little bit, the letters became less of an emotional outpour and more of a journal. Todd wrote to Neil about his day, his week, how his friends were. Casual conversation, things that they would talk about if Neil was actually there.
June 2, 1960
Hey Neil,
You'll never guess what's happening. Charlie and Cameron are actually talking again. I didn't think it was possible, seeing as how Cameron kind of got Charlie expelled, but I guess their bond was too strong. I always thought they hated each other, even before everything. Tough love, I guess?
Speaking of Charlie's expulsion, his parents are paying a shit ton of money to get him back into Welton for next year. I don't know why they wouldn't just take him somewhere else. Not that I'm mad about it, I miss Charlie more than any of the other guys do, but I just don't get it.
Everyone is doing okay. Knox actually got the balls to ask Chris on a date. She might just feel bad for him because she knows you died, but I guess that's one good thing that came out of this.
We still haven't had a Dead Poets meeting. It feels too wrong. Charlie's not here, Cameron wasn't talking to any of us until recently, and you're not here. I wish you could send some kind of a go-ahead. Something to tell us that it's okay to have a meeting without you. Maybe we could put your picture on that god of the cave lamp.
I'm doing alright today. I've only cried a few times and I actually ate breakfast. There's only a few weeks left of school. I'm not that excited for summer, though. I really wanted to do something with you. We could have gone to the beach or something. I bet your freckles get darker in the summer.
I accidentally broke your bottle of cologne. Knocked it off my nightstand and couldn't save any of it. I cried for a good 3 hours. I want it back so bad. I want you back so bad. Gonna try not to get too sad. I've done good today, I don't want to ruin this letter with my tears.
Love you,
Todd
Todd transferred back to Balincrest the following year. His parents didn't trust that he would be able to succeed at Welton after everything that happened. He graduated at the top of his class and got into a good college. Academics became his distraction. He poured all of himself into his schoolwork so he wouldn't have time to grieve or think.
As the years went on, the endless nightmares and days spent curled up in bed sobbing began to happen less and less frequently. Todd graduated college, and later, law school, and found himself a secure career. His days at Welton were long behind him. He had mostly lost contact with all of the Poets. The most he ever heard from them was an occasional phone call or letter, or an invitation to a wedding or baby shower.. He still thought of Neil every day, but his memory no longer caused an agonizing, stabbing pain, but rather, a soft, bittersweet feeling. He stopped writing letters to Neil a few years into college. They'd given him all the closure he needed.
Every so often, however, Todd found himself going to the attic and digging out the old wooden chest he kept locked up and under many storage boxes. He would sit on the wooden floor, read through the papers he'd collected off of Neil's desk that night so long ago, trying not to let his tears land on the fragile paper. He had the school annual from that year, which had a page dedicated to Neil in memoriam. He would run his shaking fingers over the pictures, ones where Neil was smiling, happy—exactly as Todd remembered him. He kept all of the letters he wrote to Neil but did not read them. They weren't meant for him. They were Neil's.
He would press his face into that green sweater, hold it tight to his body, and allow himself to sob into it. Each time he took it out, part of him hoped that maybe Neil's scent would still be there, but it had faded over time, taking on the dusty smell of the attic. Nonetheless, Todd still had every bit of Neil ingrained into his memory. The smell of cigarettes, coffee, and cologne. Every little detail of his face, the freckles that dotted his chest, shoulders, and back. How he held Todd at night and how peaceful he looked when he slept. The way his touch felt, the way his gaze made Todd feel so loved.
Todd came to realize that Charlie was right; they did get through it. The healing was slow, long, and hard, but they all made it out alive. He would never forget any part of Neil, though.
Some things stay with you forever.