I didn't notice that we were sitting in silence for so long because I was absorbed in the colors and story of our lives. It wasn't us, in theory. The raggedy kids in the comics were doing heroic things. But I saw that Poison took inspiration from many things in the desert. The mailbox with letters to the deceased became a beacon of hope for those looking for peace. The radio was the voice of reason and Dr. Death Defying could rally the killjoys like troops. There was almost a sort of patriotism that came from living in the desert and being apart of the community of survivors. There was a culture. Poison knew that culture so well and could describe it with markers and short text. The story was cut short before a large uprising. Who would come out victorious?

I looked up from the last page and saw that Poison was watching me intently. He had sat crisscross on the floor next to me now and was leaning his face in his hands, his elbows propped on his legs. He was vulnerable in this moment and didn't have up his usual angry guard. Poison's energy had changed completely now that we were discussing his art. I liked this quiet side of him. I could imagine going to an art museum with him and browsing the gallery quietly, but respectfully. Maybe someday we could. I hoped this was a start of us finally making amends after tension for so long. I realized I cared for him like a brother.

"You're done but you haven't said anything," He laughed. "Should I be offended? Is it bad?"

"No!" I exclaimed. "I just want to know how it ends."

"Me too." He sighed.

-

Later I looked at myself in the mirror and didn't recognize myself. At this time I didn't understand why I looked different. I know now that this experience that we all went through changed us mentally and physically. The trauma aged us decades. My body took every fight with it in the form of scars and leathered skin. If I could rip my chest open, I would probably see the hurt it has healed from.
I gripped the counter and stared at my white knuckles. I am alive. It wasn't the first time I had analyzed those words by every letter. I wasn't just a character in a story. My lungs circulated air. My blood went from my heart, to the tips of my toes, and then back again. Thinking about this didn't help me with my attempts to make peace with death. I didn't get to even make peace with death. I didn't have to.

In the night, something very strange happened.