The Gangway

"I should have stayed," Marc whispered softly, dropping to bended knee beside the lopsided pile of snow. "Ma's lasagne wasn't worth this."

The snow was piled against one of the brick buildings, the gentle taper at one end covered in yellow piss. Marc reached a gloved hand through the frigid space and began brushing the snow off the strange form.

A cold, blue-lipped face stared back at him.

"Fuck, Brenden. I didn't even leave a key. You said you'd..."

Marc closed his eyes in a grimace. Did it matter if his friend said he'd be fine? He knew the storm was coming. Knew the temperatures would drop. Knew Brenden had the pride of a lion and was as willing to seek help as a toddler.

"I'm sorry."

The tall walls of the gangway seemed to close in around him, hunch over his shoulders and breathe down his neck as though they knew Marc's belly was warm and full while Brenden lay frozen to death, eyes open but still soft with understanding.

"I should have stayed," Marc repeated, this time anguish making the words rough in his mouth.

Brenden had come here. In his last moments, he had curled against the sidewalk between the old houses, content to die with the knowledge he'd be found.

Marc dusted the rest of the body off, lips twisting as his glove brushed the clumps of piss from Brenden's boots.

"I'll give you a good grave," he said. "A pretty grave."