See the pyramids along the Nile
Watch the sun rise from the tropic isle
Just remember darling all the while
You belong to me
See the market place in old Algiers
Send me photographs and souvenirs
Just remember when a dream appears
You belong to me
And I'll be so alone without you
Maybe you'll be lonesome too
Fly the ocean in a silver plane
See the jungle when it's wet with rain
Just remember till you're home again
You belong to me
Oh I'll be so alone without you
Maybe you'll be lonesome too
Fly the ocean in a silver plane
See the jungle when it's wet with rain
Just remember 'til you're home again
You belong to me
~Lifehouse, "You Belong to Me"

April 28, 2002

The steady, monotonous sound was what woke me up.

When I opened my eyes, all I could see was white. Vast white, nothingness.

"Am I dead?"

There were sounds of movement, and I realised that I was not dead, but in a hospital room. The beeping was the sound of my heart monitor.

"Where am I?"

"Fisch, it's me, Steve." I felt a hand on the side of my cheek.

"Steve?" I struggled to sit up. "Stevie?" I looked into the concerned eyes of my captain.

"You're lucky we found you," he murmured, gesturing to himself and Brendan Shanahan, his friend. "If we hadn't, you might have died of exposure." His voice cracked.

Why was he so sad?

"What happened, Stevie?" I asked, touching the tubes that connected me to the IV.

His eyes snapped open, shocked. "You don't know?"

I shook my head and felt the effects immediately. "N-no."

Brendan looked at Steve, and then me. "Should we tell him, Steve?"

Stevie nodded, firmly. "He's going to find out, one way or another, Bren. There's no point in concealing it. It'd only cause him heartache."

"And what if we DO tell him," Shanahan fired back. "What do you think telling him will do, while he's in this fragile state?"

"Tell," I insisted, tugging on Steve's hand, "tell now, Stevie."

Steve cleared his throat, tears welling in his eyes. "Jiri... Last night, you were... After the game, you were..." His voice shook and I could tell he was near tears. "You were...attacked... After the game, last night..."

His words were going in circles, it seemed, and they were making my HEAD go in circles, as well.

"Attacked?" I asked. 'That would explain the pain and bandages, genius,' I told myself.

Stevie choked up and Shanahan handed him a Kleenex, patting his back. "You were..." He couldn't bring himself to say it.

Brendan stepped up beside him, his eyes also betraying immense sadness. "You were...raped, Jiri. Some man...men...who didn't like that you were a gay NHLer took advantage of you," he murmured, softly, eyes spilling over with wet tears.

"Max? Where is Maxie?" I asked, my voice sounding so rough and loud in my ears.

Brendan tightened his lips, closing his eyes, and shuddered. "M-Max...died."

I felt as if I was an angel and they'd clipped my wings.

"That isn't funny," I laughed. "Max isn't dead."

"He is, he died in the hospital," Stevie managed, pressing a hand to his mouth. He looked like he was going to throw up. He looked green. "They couldn't save him... The man who hurt you, he had friends with him... They cut Max...with a knife... He was too hurt. The doctors couldn't save him-"

"IS DOCTOR'S JOB IS TO SAVE PEOPLE," I screamed, lashing out in my anger and confusion. "MAX ISN'T DEAD BECAUSE IT'S DOCTOR'S JOB TO SAVE HIM! BRING MAX! I WANT TO SEE HIM!"

I knew you weren't dead, I just knew. They were just yanking my chain. A cruel joke, that's all this was, just a cruel joke.

"He's DEAD," Steve exploded, his eyes watering as he shook me by the shoulders, gently. "Can't you understand? They couldn't save him, Fishy! They tried, but they lost him!"

"STEVE!" Brendan grabbed him, pulled him back. "That's not helping! I KNEW we shouldn't have told him! He wasn't ready to hear this!"

I began to cry. I didn't know what else to do.

I knew you weren't dead, but somehow...deep inside me...I KNEW. The truth.

"He-he's not dead," I cried, closing my eyes and clenching my hands into fists. "He's not dead. Maxie is alive. He's waiting for me. We were supposed to see movie last night. He's wondering where I am, and he's mad because I'm late."

"You don't understand," Steve whispered, lifelessly, arms hanging limp at his sides. "He IS dead. He's never coming back, Fishy. Don't you get it? They...those assholes... They butchered him and now he's dead."

"I don't believe you," I snapped, opening my eyes to glare at Steve. Conjured up my strength to hate him. "You're lying. You never approved of me and Max. You're just trying to keep us apart."

"That's not true," he whined, "I loved Max like a brother. Don't you think this is killing me inside, Fishy?"

"Then you bring Max," I shouted, grabbing my pillow and hefting it at him, weakly, since I was still in pain. "BRING MAX BACK! BRING HIM BACK! BRING HIM BACK!"

Steve backed out of the room, closing his eyes and slumping his shoulders, but Brendan stayed, pulling up a chair by my bed.

"Fishy," he whispered, softly, taking my hand in his, "Max isn't alive anymore. He's in Heaven now... Hebesa. Those men did kill him. They robbed him from all of us... Pushing Steve and me away won't bring him back. Nothing can bring him back now. ALL of us were robbed."

I shook my head, unwilling, unable to believe. "I need him. He need me."

"He's dead," Brendan whispered, his eyes red with fatigue and sadness. "You've got to understand that Max is dead. His wife is coming to identify his body..."

"No," I murmured, as it suddenly hit home to me that I no longer had my companion, my constant companion. My one true love. Hearing of Tatiana coming to identify MY Max... I shook my head, allowing myself to give in to what Brendan and Steve were saying, allowed myself to start to grieve.

"It's okay to be sad," he said, softly, pulling me into his arms. "Let it all out, Fishy. You deserve this. You deserve to be sad, to mourn. No one's going to take that from you. Let it all out."

Brendan rested his chin on my shoulder, and it was then that I realised he too was crying. His body shuddered. He pressed his face against mine, and I could taste his salty tears on my tongue.

"Brendan... It's not fair," I said, finally.

"I know," he said, "but life isn't fair. As evidenced by what happened last night..." He moved his fingers through my hair, like you used to do, and pulled away, eyes watery once again.

"How will I live without him?" I asked, voice cracking, as was my soul.

Brendan reached out, brushed my tears away with his thumb. "I don't honestly have an answer for that, Fishy... But I'll be there every step of the way... It's going to be a long, rocky road, but I'll be there. We ALL will."

===

I went home a week later. To an empty house.

Your clothes were laying on our bed, when I got home, and Brendan tightened his grip on my arm when he saw them.

"Oh God." He closed his eyes and Catherine, his wife, touched his arm.

"Brendan..." She looked at me, worriedly. "You're not helping Jiri. Be strong for him."

Shanahan glanced at his wife, and then me. "Fishy..."

"I want to keep them." I went and gathered your clothes in my arms. "I'm going to keep them." I buried my nose in them. They smelled fresh, as if they'd just come out of the dryer. The way YOU smelled.

"It's okay," he said, softly. "You keep 'em. As long as you want."

I felt his hand on my shoulder. "I will..."

===

While Brendan and Cathy were in the bedroom, deciding where to put your things without tossing anything away, I went into the backyard.

Your plug-in snowman, the one I bought you for our Christmas that had the light up carrot nose, was still in its original place, still wearing your winter hat.

"Max," I addressed the snowman, "I know you can hear me. I just want to tell you I'm sorry I couldn't protect you."

The snowman only stared.

"I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me."

Nothing.

"One day, we will be together again. You and I. We'll go to the Sleeping Bear Sand Dunes. We'll go to Traverse City and fish. We'll...do the things we always did. The way we always did them."

No reply.

"I miss you all ready, you know. Bowman doesn't want me to come back too soon. He says not to rush coming back. I don't think he expects me back in the playoffs..."

Nothing.

"But I'm going to come back because you would've wanted it that way. You wouldn't want me to give up my career, would you?"

I knew I was just rationalising my thoughts to the inanimate plastic snowman, as if it could respond.

But somehow, I felt a little better.

And besides, it was more alive than you were.

***

I was a good boy.

I did everything I was supposed to do. I loved the one I was with, and completely. I loved my parents. I respected them. I loved the Game. I respected the Game. I guess I even loved myself, and perhaps, respected myself, but not enough to your liking.

And somehow, none of that was good enough.

None of it was enough to keep you alive.

***

I sit on your side of the bed, listening to our song. I run my fingertip over the small framed picture of us, when we were happy.

"You belong to me, Maxie. Forever. We'll always be together..."

I imagine you're sitting beside me. "And you belong to me, Fishy," you reply, stiltedly, wrapping me in your arms. "I love you. Ya lublu vas."

"I love you too."

I kiss you and hold you in my arms. Tell you about my day. How I scored a goal and there was a feature about us on ESPN.

"They made a tribute to your career and life for ESPN SportsCentury," I say, unable to hide my smile.

"What career?" I imagine you ask, eyes glinting mischievously. "I only play for what, three seasons? Two? How long was program? Ten minutes?"

I laugh. "They had interviews with your mother and father, and Tatya... And the guys," I explain. "They filled in the parts that were left because your career wasn't long."

"How was it? Did you talk?"

I shake my head. "No, they didn't ask me to. I wouldn't have, either."

"Why not?"

"I don't think I'd be able to do it," I admit.

"Why not, Fishy?"

"Because...it's too soon, for me," I sigh. "You've been gone for a couple months. It's too soon."

"The new season will begin, Fishy. You will have to move on," I imagine you saying, growing restless with me.

"I'm not going to let you go." I reply, firmly.

"I'll make you let me go."

***

I don't want to have this conversation with you, but I know it'll come...some day.

The guys worry that I'm talking to you when you're not here anymore. They don't think it's normal, healthy for me to keep talking to you even though you're gone...

I can't even say it... The 'd' word. Death. Dead. I can't say that you're...that you're dead.

Because somehow, to me, you're not really gone.

Part 7 | Part 9