excerpts

4.6

I HATE HOSPITALS.

The sharp smell of antiseptic stains the air, stinging my nose as I inhale sharply, making a bad companion to the anxiety coupled with fear that I feel as my stomach churns in anticipation. I can't stand not knowing what's going on, because nobody will tell me, thinking that at fifteen I'm still more of a child than an adult. I've had to grow up fast, but these past couple of days have made it seem like I've been aging indefinitely.

Dark bags rest under my sullen, hollow eyes, face sunken and pallid, as my features fall limply, not expressing any emotion at all; my mind is heading into overdrive, speculating at all the reasons you could've checked into a hospital at three in the morning, each of them more tragic than the last.

I keep running my hands through my hair, even though it's bad for me, as multiple strands have come loose from increased stress, not knowing what to do with my hands. I'm terrified for you, because I'm waiting in the ward for life threatening surgical procedures. I cannot fathom how you ended up on one side of a distress call, as just the day before we were happy and smiling, because nothing truly mattered in those moments but the moment itself. I can still picture these memories clear as day, but I'm worried that after today, that's all I'll have. Nothing but washed up memories of the good old days--before everything changed and our worlds came crashing down, but I didn't know how to rebuild and you were a master builder. I always needed you to keep me together and now I've got to be the one that makes sure you're okay.

My feet tap impatiently against the multicolored tile floor, in a nonsensical pattern, the scuffed soles of my tennis shoes being slowly worn away through my actions. There's so much energy running through my body, that a particular jolt strikes me in the chest, making my heart beat infinitely faster as a doctor approaches, wearing a pristine lab coat and carrying a clipboard. I can feel my fingers trembling slightly, palms getting sweaty as I await the call of your name, spilling across the opening of their lips, like a broken symphony of sounds as your parents give a strangled cry and people's heads turn, trying to discern the family here for you, my voice catches in my throat, creating a sort of hesitant gasp, as I watch our friends faces contort into expressions of devastation.

I don't want to know.

I want to know.

I don't want to know.

I want to know.

They say ignorance is bliss, and I wholly agree. If I didn't know about this, I'd be living my life normally, but I'm living within a hospital, surviving in vending machine food and dollar coffee. I'm glad that I chose to know. That I got to know you. Because sooner or later, everything we know will fall apart, the fabric of life separating into tendrils of thread hanging limply in the hands of fate. All we can do is choose what we want to do with the time we have afforded to us.

I'm sorry you didn't get to see the world like you wanted to. I hate that you'll never grow up and do the things you planned to. You don't even know the pain welling up inside me, feeling like a flood built up on one side of a dam, and the dam breaking under pressure is me, releasing a current of emotions that make me go insane.

And I cling to every moment we shared as if it's my lifeline and its physically impossible for me to live without it. Scraps here and there of long gone memories flit through my mind as I desperately try to grab them out of thin air. I hate the way I feel, disappointed and upset that your passing came so quickly. Guilt builds within me. I should've done more with you. I should've talked when you wanted to and hung out more and we definitely could've met up a lot more often.

I can't push past the fact that you're gone. I'm holding onto every last piece of you left here, desperately trying to keep you with me, although I know you're already gone.

I don't know for sure if I'll ever stop missing you.

But sometimes, you just gotta learn to let go.