Sam is Dead. Hannah Kirkell
Sam finished his coffee, discarded the cup, and walked out of the shop. It was as if the atmosphere of the shop immediately relaxed; I could hear a few customers audibly sigh with relief. I myself felt free again.
*****
God. Sam.
I still can’t believe I’ll never see him again.
Because Sam is dead.
Chapter Two
Sam is dead.
I continue to make progress during the day, only to have it be torn down by repeated dreams of being a one-man funeral procession. His casket seems to get heavier each night.
Desperate to gain some closure, I visit Sam’s grave for the first time since lowering him into it. Although I am expecting it, it pains me to see that the only flowers by his crude headstone are the decomposed ones I left for him a month ago.
Sometimes, I wish Sam wasn’t the way he was. Maybe that way, he would be remembered by more than me. Maybe he would have been hailed as a hero rather than a criminal. Maybe…maybe then, he wouldn’t have died.
But deep down, I know that if Sam was any different, he wouldn’t have been Sam.
Sam is dead.
*****
The second time I saw him, it wasn’t in the coffee shop. It was a few weeks after our first encounter, and I had all but forgotten about the mysterious and intimidating stranger. Had my day gone any differently, we probably wouldn’t have seen each other ever again.
As it was, however, we did run into each other—and I mean that quite literally.
In my defense, the bus was crowded. How was I supposed to know that the vacant seat “belonged” to Sam? According to Sam, however, I was supposed to be a psychic.
It had been a long day. I’d missed my bus to school, and I was on a course to be late for my first period biology test. So when I saw an empty seat, I jumped at it. A few minutes into my cram session, I felt someone’s eyes on me. I glanced up to find Sam towering over me.
“Get up,” he growled, eyes locked on mine.
“W-what?” I asked with a start.
“I was sitting there, kid, so git. Move. Find somewhere else to learn about…” The anger slowly dissolved from his face, transforming into confusion. “The parts of a cell?”
“Uh, yeah, I’ve got a bio—er, biology—quiz in fifteen minutes. I’m sorry, I missed my bus, and I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“It’s simple. The cell allows you to further understand other complex aspects of the body, skin tissue, for example.” A gleam came into Sam’s eyes, a gleam that men only get when talking about their true passion.
“Yeah, I get that, I just”—I waved my hand dismissively over my notes—“don’t get how to remember everything.”
Sam took a few steps closer to me and grabbed the bar next to me.
“Sure. All right, the nuclear membrane surrounds the nucleus. You can remember that they go together because they have similar-sounding names, right?”
“Um—”
“Great. Then, you’ve got the Golgi apparatus.” He pointed at some squiggly lines. “You can remember them because they look like snakes or tangled-up headphones. Here, let me.” Sam plucked my pen from my hand and began rewriting my notes in a way that even I understood them. Sam proceeded to slowly break down the elements of a cell for me, and I was surprised that I soon began to understand what he was saying. He spoke as if he truly knew what he was talking about, and even though I was terrified, I decided to push my luck.
“How do you know all this? Were you a biology major?”
Sam’s face darkened. “Isn’t this your stop? I’d like my seat back,” he growled. I scrambled up, slammed my notebook closed, and flung myself off the bus without another word. As the bus drove away, I locked eyes with Sam and gave him a smile.
His face contorted in shock and he proceeded to jump so violently that he almost fell off his newly acquired seat.
*****
Presently, I smile and open my worn biology notebook. I trace my finger over the faded additions Sam scrawled into my notes. I briefly consider tracing over his handwriting to make it last longer. I dismiss the thought; if I messed up, I’d ruin what I already have.
It seems that even though Sam is dead, he will live on through the things he touched.
Chapter Three
Sam is still dead. It’s been just about two months, and I’m already starting to forget how his voice sounded and what he looked like when he smiled.
I’ve been struggling to remember how nice Sam could be when he wanted to. Whenever I hear Sam’s name or think about him, I only think of how angry he looked, the disappointment in his voice, and the tired, defeated look in his eyes.
Sam.
Sam is dead.
It seems that I can’t fall asleep without seeing Sam in some way: being zipped up into a body bag, standing near our regular table, carrying Sam’s casket. I’ve even found myself walking past the place he used to live, standing outside his door. Once, I even knocked.
But Sam is dead, and he’d never again answer the door.
*****
The third time I saw Sam, he accused me of stalking him.
It was a warm day in January, and I was sitting at my usual table in Jay’s Café, the coffee shop. I was drinking coffee and staring distractedly out the side window when the doors opened, and the shop fell silent. I knew who’d walked in even before I turned my head.
There stood Sam in all his five-foot-seven intimidating glory. The room began to slowly fill with hushed voices. Sam’s back stiffened, but he pointedly ignored the whispers and hissed insults.
He repeated the routine I’d seen once before—the barked order, placing exact change on the counter, and drinking his coffee the instant it was handed to him. But instead of walking out after finishing his drink, Sam locked eyes with me and headed toward the counter by the window I was sitting at.
“Are you stalking me?” he asked, amusement seeping through his deep voice.
“No! I was here first!” I sputtered out. My face flushed when he laughed at me.
“Calm down, kid. I’m just messing with you.”
I hope the shudder I gave wasn’t too evident. “Please don’t call me kid.”
Sam arched an eyebrow. “But you’re a kid.”
“My name’s Eric.”
“Sam.” He extended his hand, and in my panic, I completely missed.
“Yeah, I know,” I blurted out before I could stop myself. I felt my face flush again.
“Oh?” Sam arched his left eyebrow again. “Do you now? Because you’re stalking me, right?”
“Uh, no, no, I heard the barista call you Sam, and I…” I met Sam’s gaze and saw amusement evident in his dark eyes. “Oh. You’re messing with me.”
“Damn straight.”
We stood there in silence for a few minutes before I stood.
“I, uh, I’ve gotta go.”
Sam nodded and turned his attention to something outside the window. I threw away my cup, crossed the room, and felt someone behind me. When exiting, I turned around to hold the door.
The look of shock on Sam’s face will stick with