This is part 5 of 5 in the short story series, Errol is Dead. While they can be read in any order, you can find part one here, part two here, and part three here, and part four here.

Errol is dead. And that's okay.

Because I have a new Errol. I made him when I went to the apartment. I was looking for preserved meat or scissors or knives or water or anything else that I might use, but instead I found Errol. He wasn't quite put together, so I decided that I must do something about that. Whatever being once lived here had long since left, but they had abandoned the craft supplies they apparently loved, as they were all over the house.

I found the rock first. It wasn't big enough, though. It was not good enough for Errol. After pulling out ever single rock from the drawer, I checked their sizes and decided on one that was perfectly in the middle. Perfect like Errol.

I found an old can with some green dye liquid in it and made sure to spread it on the rock with the crusty brushes stored in the drawers. Then I found some eyes. They were the kind that moved around. They weren't quite like Errol's. They couldn't move on their own. I had to shake my new Errol to make them move, but they did move, and I thought that made this version of Errol a bit closer to the original.

Then I made his legs. There was a grey material that was like rock but softer. I decided that would have to do for Errol's legs, as there were no rocks that were quite the right shape. I did the front two, than the back two. I made sure they bent at the knee in just the same way and that it looked as though he were sitting. This way, I could carry him in my hands easily. That was one thing Errol wasn't good at. He'd always try to escape. He just wanted to follow me on his own, but I wanted to hold him. My new Errol would let me hold him.

Now my Errol was finished. I told myself this was nice. I told myself it made sense. I told myself that this would be enough, that Errol was not dead, that Errol was right here. Everything was fine. Errol and I would stay in this apartment, with our bedding and our preserved meat and our water and our bag with the hole I had to fix. We would stay here and we would be happy with each other. We would not be alone because Errol and I were always together.

There was still a thought that tugged the back of my mind. Was this Errol really my Errol? Or was he a cheap imitation that I had made to make myself feel better? Was he not truly Errol because he was not made of the same material, he did not make the same sounds, and he would not behave in the same way?

Maybe that didn't matter. This Errol would be better behaved, at least. He was quiet and he would stay in one place if I told him to. He would not follow me. He would not make sounds. Sometimes I wanted him to make sounds. That was part of why I liked Errol. I liked the reminder of noise.

I could fix that. I was sure of it. I could find a way to grant him speech. This would be Errol. I couldn't live without Errol. This would be enough.

Errol is dead. But I have created another.