The apartment stood in front of me, the horror lurking inside. The memories hung like haunted ghosts, and the memories to come like a dead man walking. The sky was empty, a deep void that no eye could capture. The moon hung apologetically, feeling sorry for the deed about to unfold.

I opened the door.

The stairs up to the apartment felt like a million steps. My breath hung in the air as my heart pounded. I didn't want this to happen. I reached the door and swung it open, revealing a modern living room and kitchen. It was suddenly sunset again, and it felt like I had seen it all before.
I walked towards the bedroom door, where I heard a commotion. I heard the familiar screams and pleads for someone not to leave, the desperation in her voice.

I was witnessing the memory of that evening.

The door swung open, Pete storming out in the clothes he had worn that day, the black tee and shorts he always wore. He suddenly felt more real than the nights he appeared, more human.
I saw myself, the look of horror on my face after being beaten, the sudden fear of what he threatened to do. Pete slammed the door shut and I heard my deafening scream.

It stung to hear it again.

What I hadn't thought about in the moment was what Pete did during the time period he left me, left me thinking he was killing himself. I watched as he stormed over to the kitchen, pulling s gun from the cupboard. I gasped, realising that he had a weapon in his possession the entire time we were holidaying, the time when I was still in love with him. Except he didn't go to aim it at himself; he went to go back to the bedroom.

Shock rushed through me like a brain freeze, the idea of him possibly shooting me never crossed my mind. It appeared to me that I was potentially dating a sociopath, maybe even a psychopath.

He stopped at the door and stood there, heavily breathing in a state of rage. He seemed unfazed by my screams, no pain crossing his mind or need to comfort me. It made me want to punch him.

After a moment, he backed away from the door, stumbling over to the couch where he sat and opened a beer my dad had left in the esky next to the coffee table. He sat, drinking, as bedroom me continued to scream, watching the wall like nothing was happening.

As time passed and I was still screaming in the bedroom, he got up and began walking to the door again, where his facial features changed. It was as if he was trying to convince himself that my screams meant I loved him. He opened the door, and the room fades to emptiness, the sun disappears and I'm back to reality, the dull night sky shining into the dark, cold lounge room. There on the couch sat Pete, there but not there in the shirt I gave him and the shorts he always wears.

"You were going to kill me?" I whispered, disgusted and pained.

He continued to sit there, expressionless. He lowered his head into his palms.

"I don't understand." I murmured, slightly louder and hurt. It hurt like a million knives stabbing at the heart, at everything. 

"I was drunk," he spoke, muffled as he hadn't lifted his head from his palms, "seeing you talk to him made me jealous, so I drunk a lot of your dads beer."

"That doesn't account for what you were thinking of doing," I gritted, "a drunk mans words and actions are a sober mans thoughts."

He lifted his head, looking over at me. He was crying.

"I never knew what I was thinking," he whispered, the pain suddenly apparent in his voice, "but I was certain I loved you."

Silence hung in the room like a new roommate, unsure of what was happening.

"Check your phone." He said coldly, and as I pulled my phone from my bag it began to ring. I looked down at it to read the caller; Pete Hein.

I looked at Pete and realised that this was it, the moment where human Pete was about to say goodbye. I walked over to Pete and sat next to him before I answered the phone.

"Hello?" I asked, not knowing what was going to be said. A deep breath was on the other end, sniffles and cries evident.

"Georgia, I'm-" he cried, the audio being muffled by how close he was to the microphone.

"You don't have to do it," I stated, looking up at Pete next to me, the pain across his face.

"How do you-"

"It's hard to explain, but you don't have to do it. Life moves on, pain stays. Please don't."

I knew I couldn't change what would happen, for if I could, there wouldn't be the soul of Pete sitting next to me, pitying us.

"I love you Georgia," he whispered, and I knew his fate was sealed, "and I ask you forgive me for everything I did, all the pain I put you through."

I looked at Pete next to me, and he waited. This is what me meant by healing, moving on, forgiving. I had to accept. How sick it sounded.

"I forgive you," I whispered, tears streaming down my face, "and I truly loved you, with all my heart."

"Thank you," he pleaded, sadness and pain in his voice, finally for the last time, "thank you."

My eyes were streaming, "See you in the funny papers."

He hung up.

My face fell into my hands as the tears flooded. Pete sat there, understanding in his face. I didn't want him to die, but alas, it would happen. This was how we would heal, despite how dark it sounded.

Pete stood up and headed towards the kitchen, where he opened the cupboard to reveal the gun he pulled out a year ago. It wasn't there of course, which meant human Pete had it and was about to use it. The sudden realisation struck and I screamed.

"No, please no." I screamed, watching as Pete shut the cupboard and began walking to the bedroom. He opened the door and stopped.

"See you in the funny papers." he whispered, and shut the door behind him.

I screamed louder, screamed like the night he threatened to kill himself. Screamed like I was worried, screamed because I was about to lose someone who impacted my life. I sat there until that dreaded sound.

The gunshot.

Silence followed. I sat there, quiet, until the weeping began. I wobbled to the bedroom door as the screams escaped my mouth. I opened the door to see nothing.

Pete had healed.