- Endling, Part I: A Visit from an Old Friend
By Draven Copeland, Editor-in-Chief
Introduction to the Story and Dedication to My Friends
Hey everybody! First, thank you for reading, I’ve been very excited to share this story with you for a while now. Before I let you have the rest, I wanted to include a brief explanation for the story and it’s upcoming parts (a total of five, by the way).
I began writing “Endling” over the summer of 2025, soon after the death of my grandfather, who I was very close to. A lot of the characterization of Johnny was based from my experience living with him as he suffered from cancer-induced memory loss and confusion, a very emotional time for me that I had to create something from.
After I’d finished many drafts of the full story, I lost another person very close to me. My best friend, David Simanca, tragically passed away on June 6th this year while boating with co-workers. Going through the process of grief wasn’t new to me, but it was very different losing someone suddenly compared to the slow decline I’d seen before. Although I didn’t end up changing much about the story itself, I think some of that grief shines through in the small edits I did make since then in finishing the piece.
I want to dedicate “Endling”, in all its parts, to David Simanca and my grandfather, David Willis, both of whom meant the world to me and who I’d like to create this world in memory of.
Thank you,
Draven Copeland, Editor in Chief
“John,” a familiar voice spoke out of the vast sea of delirium.
John’s eyes rolled around in his head, first searching to find the real world around him and then grasping for the memory his mind was desperately trying to attribute to the voice. It was a few moments before he realized his eyelids were closed and, as he slowly willed them upward, the bright sunspots in his eyes became dark holes in the faded white ceiling.
He didn’t understand where he was, at first. Achingly turning his head to the left and right, he managed only a few degrees in either direction and only vaguely comprehended the pale, sterile room around him. The back half of the bed he was lying on was tilted forward to support his back, putting him into a half-seated position, and there were sheer blankets lazily covering the lower half of his wrinkled and sagging body. An electronic beeping steadily rose in volume around him – or his brain was just now catching up to the fact that it had always been there, steadily reporting every pulse of his heart.
Pale gray light emanated from the sole window to his right, and in the one corner of the room that the light didn’t reach, he was able to make out the dark form of a young man seated on a chair, watching him. As John’s vision slowly came to him, the man’s features seemed to form out of the shadow.
The young man’s face was boyish but emaciated, appearing ghoulish as it leaned into the pale light while shoulder-length dark brown curls of hair fell around it to hide the skeletal image in their shade. His gloom-filled eyes were surrounded in what was either unnatural bruises or messily applied eye-shadow, and his lips were so thin and pale that John wondered for a moment if the slit in his face was a mouth or a scar. His slender frame was arched forward in the chair, as if he anticipated that John would do something incredible at any second
“Oh good,” the young man said, his voice airy but full when he made it so, like a singer whose smoking habits were starting to catch up to them. “I caught you before– well, I’ll not spoil it for you, old friend.”
He chuckled softly to himself, his voice failing him as he laughed. He gathered himself again and leaned back, settling into the chair. Out of the light now, his dark clothing and the dimness of the corner made him appear again as a shadow, save for the slight twinkling of jewelry on his hands and face and the dark twinkling of the moisture in his eyes.
John’s body still largely uncooperative, he was unable to respond to the young man with anything beyond a slowly exhaled breath. His eyes began to widen with fear the more he tried unsuccessfully to force his vocal chords into action, and the man in the corner held his skeletal pale hand out to calm him.
“Don’t strain yourself… you haven’t spoken in months as far as I’ve heard,” the man said. “I’m not here to hurt you, if that’s what you’re worried about. Quite the opposite, actually.” Another wispy chuckle, and then a short but performative gasp of realization. “Oh my God. You probably don’t remember me. Dementia will do that to you, but hell, you know that a lot better than I do, man. Or maybe you don’t. Well, you do now… for as long as you can remember, am I right?”
John’s mind swam, and he had a creeping realization that his body was feeling very sick. The harder he tried to think, the more his body felt like it was falling through gelatin, and nausea began rising within him. After the young man finished another chuckle, he continued again.
“I’m Luke. We were friends years ago, if you can remember.” Luke paused for a moment, and when there wasn’t any response, he added: “I really hope you do.”
John did, but only to a certain degree. Although he couldn’t remember exactly who this young man was or how he knew him, the name matched the face and the face was almost too familiar. It seemed completely unchanged from the elusive memory John’s mind couldn’t bring to bear, even though he felt nearly certain that the last time he’d seen Luke must have been decades past.
“Luke…” John was able to breathe out, the dust in his throat halting any sound in his voice. His tone made the name sound more like a confirming question than any form of recognition, but Luke smiled all the same when he heard his name repeated, the slit in his face widening uncannily slowly in the darkness.
“That’s right, Johnny. Phew… I was honestly worried you wouldn’t recognize me… or that you wouldn’t be able to reply at all. That really would’ve been unfortunate– for me, at least. I’ve got all of this to tell you, and I’d never know if you’d understood me or not. Or, worse, what if you had questions? I’d never know if I got through to you. I’ve been telling myself that, either way, I’d get this off my chest and that that’s what mattered. But I’ve got to be honest with you, Johnny, I really, really wanted you to hear this. Or understand it, rather. I’ve got lots of time to talk to brick walls ahead of me, trust me.”
“I knew you,” John whispered, his vocal chords still too rigid to give sound to his voice.
“You did. And, for a little while, we were very close.” He threw up his hands in a form of surrender. “As friends, we were close. Don’t worry though, I always knew you wanted something a little more out of it even if you never made a move. Would’ve if I could’ve, trust me.” Another laugh. “Our paths separated suddenly one night, and trust me, it was the best choice you ever made in your life. Out of the couple years of it that I was there, at least. You didn’t see me ever again after the night in the alley, and I made it a point not to see you again either… and, until just recently, I kept that promise fairly well.”
Luke leaned forward in his chair, his faded blue eyes catching in the glints of sunlight that made it through the curtains of his hair. The dark around them that John had thought might be makeup was now certainly dark bruises around his eyes; he looked as if he’d either been recently beaten or had not slept in months… or both. Even in the light, his lips were so pale they matched the white of his face – when he spoke it looked as if a wound was opening and closing with every word.
“I was going to kill you, Johnny,” Luke said, and chuckled again, this time without humor. “Do you remember that?”
