"Colson" I scream, shaking him my his shoulders.
He doesn't move a muscle. His eyes are shut, and there is no ounce of emotion on his face. The only movement he's making is me shaking him.
"Mate, please, wake up" I shake him even harder, feeling as if I'm suffocating. "GET UP."
My stomach tightens. He couldn't have just died. He can't. He can't.
Someone walks up to him. "What's wrong with him?" some girl says it so casually that it's infuriating.
I look up. That was the girl working at the café stand; she's dressed in the dull, custard-colored uniform of this pace, and has a bored expression. She's looking at us like were two kids trying to play some crappy joke of some sort.
"I DON'T FUCKING KNOW" My voice comes out as a soft scream, as I'm on the verge of tears. "JUST CALL AN AMBULANCE, PLEASE"
"Sir, ambulance rides cost $1,189 on average in the US. Do you really think that any of us can afford that" the café worker walks off, heading out of the café.
I grit my teeth in frustration. I pull my phone out of my pocket, but its as dead of the Queen Of England, so I'm completely reliant on someone else to call an ambulance.
Staring down at Colson's body, I remember something that may help now; CPR.
I press my hands against his chest, then lighten the push, then do the same thing again, then again. It's what I was taught when I was around 8, when some firefighters had visited my primary school.
He's still breathing, but very faintly, as if he might stop at any moment.
My lips press against his mouth as I push his chest even harder, breathing into him
Come on. You can't just die on the spot. At least die when you're a bitter old man. You've got so much life ahead of you; so many happy memories to make, so many cool songs that you haven't heard yet, so many cute animals that you haven't pet yet, just so much to live for.
I haven't known him for long, but he's clearly a good person. I don't want him to die.
"Come on, now" I whisper to him, pressing against his chest.
I breathe into his mouth, willing him to get back up. But he doesn't.
Tears of desperation shoot into my eyes.
"That guy is dead," some guy sitting at another table in the café mutters, walking out of the door.
I look up at the crowd. There are people standing around in a circle, their phones out, only recording the scene, not bothering to do anything.
Biting my lip, I do the CPR ritual again.
It's not working. I can't feel him breathing anymore.
'GOD FUCKING DAMMIT, COLSON" I scream, my voice high and painful, my throat sore.
I press against him one last time, although it's hopeless at this point. I've lost him.
There's a sudden jerking movement and Colson shoots straight up, sending me flying.
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Beautiful Nightmare (Domson)
قصص الهواةYour face, in my dreams You're nothin' but a beautiful nightmare Don't go away, just stay, just stay 17-year-old Colson is just trying to live his life, already overwhelmed by his troubles at school and home, but a heroin addiction has taken over an...
