Plans for the New Year

Sid was my only friend. I met him in 2014 working as waiters at the same restaurant, trying to make ends meet while following our artsy dreams at NYU. We balanced each other out, me and Sid. My long, dark hair, muted clothes, and introverted tendencies made it impossible to keep up with the bright, fun, quirky painters I studied alongside. When I met Sid, his beaming smile and overly positive attitude led me to assume he would be the same. But Sid's bleached blonde hair matched his 2006 emo-like fashion, and he kept everything down to his wrists and ankles covered. His clear blue eyes were tense, and his positive attitude felt soft, delicate, and quite frankly, sad. I don't think many people felt the sadness behind his mask, but the first time I saw his smile break when he thought no one was looking, I felt it and felt drawn to him. I quickly grew to enjoy his company.

Sid introduced me to his friends, his art, the bars he retreated to, everything but his upbringing or family. I didn't think much of his reluctance to relive his childhood; most art students had poor relationships with their past because of artistic career choices and feeling misunderstood.

Leading up to his disappearance, Sid gave no indications that he was abandoning me. Saturday, he and I made a night of hot chocolate and Home Alone to celebrate our post-Christmas Christmas. Sunday, we texted through binging Stranger Things in the comfort of our own beds.

New Year’s 2019, I looked at Sid for the last time.

We celebrated New Year's Eve with friends at our favorite bar, Black Fern. We didn't make it to New Year's; around 11:30 and my sixth shot of tequila, Sid and I went outside for a smoke. We stood outside the door in New York's winter for a few minutes in silence, him smoking and me trying to collect my drunken thoughts.

When I was finally able to concentrate on his face, his clear blue gaze felt different. The tensity matched the icy winter night, and it felt unsettling. Sid’s eyes wouldn’t leave his cigarette, he kept watching his breath push smoke into the air. “The smoke leaves almost as quickly as it’s produced. No commotion, it just fades away,” he noted. His comment made me decide he was as drunk as I was, which refocused my attention to the tequila burning my stomach.

"Do you want to go home? I'm not feeling this anymore,” Sid’s words rushed out. “If we go now, we can grab a bottle on the way and countdown to New Year’s at yours."

We spent the first minutes of 2019 talking about our plans for the year. I announced my plans to apply for grad school and went into detail about my scholarship opportunities and the research I had done so far to make that goal affordable.

For those few minutes, I watched his smile and felt it was genuine. There was silence in the room, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. The curl of his smiling lips was the only confirmation I needed from him.

"I think I'm going to see my brother," was Sid's plan. I didn't know he had a brother until that moment. Sid said his brother was his twin, and that they never got along. The shallow softness in his voice made me uneasy, as if his brother was a danger Sid was submitting to.

I didn’t get to hear much about his brother before running to my bathroom to throw up. While I was staring into the toilet at my reflection, waiting for the tequila to find its way back up my throat, I heard Sid moving around in the kitchen, speaking softly. I could only feel the haste and harshness in his voice, but I couldn't make out what he was saying.

"You okay?" I asked as I slinked back into the kitchen with red, splotchy skin and tears in my eyes from the six poor choices I drank earlier that night.

"Of course! Are you okay? Sounded rough in there," he said with a soft smile and opened arms. I embraced his hug, feeling safe, loved, and hopeful for the new year with my best friend.

At 12:24 am on January 1, 2019, I walked Sid to the door, he kissed my forehead like he always does, and left. I always watched him leave to make sure he was safe, and any other night, he would wink, wave, nod, laugh, or do something to acknowledge he noticed my concerns and had safely made it down the hall to his apartment.

But that night, he looked at me with his icy, dead eyes, and walked in. Just a somber look, nothing else.

That was the last look I saw. The first few days of his disappearance, I worried that he was sick or had concerns about reconnecting with his brother. I was annoyed he wouldn’t respond. But my concerns grew with the increasing number of days without Sid.

Weeks in and our friends were reassuring me he wasn’t in danger, “that’s just Sid. He disappears sometimes.” But I was different, he’s never left me out before. After a few months, Sid's name wasn't mentioned amongst our friends. They moved on.

But I didn't.

I frequently sent quick texts with hopes that he would respond. I would call, desperate to hear my best friend's voice. I got into a routine of knocking on his door a few times before heading to mine. Eventually, someone moved into his apartment. I knocked one day and the door opened to a short businesswoman. She knew nothing about the previous tenant, and neither did the apartment office. “He just moved away,” was all they could tell me. I contacted the police and they laughed, telling me I had merely been ghosted. I felt helpless.

On September 25, he answered his phone, maybe to hear my voice, maybe by accident. He didn't say anything, I could just hear his breathing. With my heart pounding, lip quivering, and phone trembling in my shaky hands, I let out a soft "Sid," and his breathing stopped. I knew it was him.

I said his name again and again, with an urgency as if I was running to catch up to him but was only gaining distance between us. After months of questions I prepared in my head, I couldn't begin to form a sentence.

"I miss you,” was all I could think to say. None of my questions seemed important. Seconds of silence and he was gone, like cigarette smoke in the air.

That only encouraged me to call more. I left nine voicemails that day. I started cordial, trying to reason with him. But the more I begged, the angrier I got. He received aggressive, bitter monologues, the last included, “I have mourned over losing you. It would be easier for me if you died. At least then, I would know why I was hurting.”

While I was researching ways to delete that voicemail, I got a text.

“I left something for you in your kitchen. I love you, my friend. I’m sorry. You will understand soon.”

I destroyed my apartment looking for what he left. I overlooked it three times as it hid in the shadows in my kitchen cabinet.

It was a small black journal with an envelope inside. I held it for a moment and ran my fingers across the sleek cover as if I thought I could retrace his touch and learn where he is. I opened it to where the envelope was tucked away. A small note was scribbled on the front of the aged white package, but I couldn’t make out what it said and lost patience trying to read it. I ripped opened the envelope and my heart stopped. Time slowed down and yet my eyes darted across the check faster than light.

One hundred thousand dollars, in his writing. I grabbed the envelope again, and decoded the scribble to, “for my best friend and her plans.”

I flipped through the journal to find it was full of writing. The last page was torn out. The first page had a sticky note with the words, “Read everything and text me when you’re finished.”

I sat on my kitchen floor for hours, reading and re-reading each page in disbelief. The dark-covered journal was a collection of dark reports. My best friend grew up as a science experiment. For eighteen years, Sid was poked, prodded, and injected with various chemicals and new medicines. He underwent a variety of surgeries and was put through situations I couldn’t even fathom, all in the name of science. His parents wanted a child to appease their curiosity, not to love.

After ruining the writing with my tears, I texted his phone, “I read your journal.”

October 1, I made a trip to Delaware to see Sid. Between reading his horrific burdens and getting off that plane to see him, he hadn’t really spoken to me. I merely received an address and was asked to come. But I was elated to see his smile.

Instead, I found myself standing in front of my best friend’s fresh grave. I only had the words, “here lies a soul no longer in pain,” to embrace me.

“He asked me to keep his phone on so I could bring you here,” Rick said. When I had arrived at the cemetery, Rick introduced himself as Sid’s twin. They looked the same, and looking at him was unbearable.

We sat on the bench by Sid’s grave while Rick explained that he and Sid’s traumatic childhood led them down different paths as adults. Rick grew angry, wanted revenge, and joined the military with intentions to use everything he learned to murder his parents.

“I see you’re tensing up,” Rick said with a smirk. “Don’t worry, I grew out of that mindset. Our parents got what was coming to them in a natural way. They both got cancer, Mom from smoking, and Dad from radiation exposure. They died slow, painful deaths.”

I sat quietly, unable to respond because of the tears I was holding back, waiting for the part Rick was working up to.

“Sid was different. The trauma pushed him to be a better person. We didn’t get along for a while because I couldn't understand why he wasn’t hurting like I was,” Rick’s voice trailed off to a remorseful whisper.

But avoiding the pain only prolonged it. Rick said Sid contacted him on New Year’s Eve with plans to end his life. Rick spent months reasoning with him and assuring him there were other options, but his mind was made and he couldn’t live with the pain any longer.

On September 25, Sid ended his life.

Rick kept talking, but I wasn’t able to focus on his words. My mind was replaying the last voicemail I sent and I felt the weight my words carried. I sobbed.

Rick handed me the torn-out page from the journal.

“I can’t look at myself in the mirror without feeling the pain my parents forced me through. My body was destroyed with physical trauma, and my mind is worse than that. I love you, my friend. You are the only thing I have issues parting with. I hope you accept my gift and forgive me. I’m so proud of you.”

I felt stupid for telling him my grad school plans, oblivious to his plans for the new year. I should have seen the depth behind that fragile smile I was drawn to. I wanted to be comforted by Sid’s hug and a kiss on the forehead.

But the only comfort I have is the words on his headstone.