should have chapter thirty up this weekend. almost done with it.
______________________________________________
"Just take it one step at a time. Don't you dare look up more than an inch."
I take my surroundings in slowly. But there's only so much floor I can take before I'm itching to catch a glimpse of over-washed hospital sheets.
"You'd better take it slow. There's nobody here to help you if you freak out. They'll probably just lock you up somewhere and then they'll never be any hope for you in getting out into the real world again."
I've got enough scars on my wrists to ensure it. I take another glance upwards, and catch the bedframe, with the sheets tucked in tightly around the edges. Another breath and I'm eyelevel with the metal rails at the foot of the bed.
"You're taking this too fast. Slow down a bit. Look back down or you'll start crying."
A tear leaks from the corner of my right eye and down my cheek. I'm already fucking crying. I don't think it can be worse than it already is.
"Watch your language. Slow down."
Fuck you, I tell the voice, and take small steps forward until I'm at the edge of the bed and Timmy's pale hand is just inches from mine.
He's hooked up to more tubes than his body appears to be able to take. There are IV's in three different places, and a pipe running under his nose and mask over his mouth. His skin is whiter than a sheet of paper, and I almost lose my legs at the sight. Sickly bruises rest under his eyes and in the creases of his elbows.
Shaking, I lower myself into the seat beside him and take his hand in mine. The surface is so cold, the only reason I know he's still alive is a steady beeping from the machine built into the wall. He even smaller than I remember. This isn't the Timmy once so full of life. This can't be him.
"I told you to take it slow. Look where you are now. You're about to lose your lunch."
The lunch I haven't eaten, but it's correct when I lean over and heave whatever was in my stomach into the garbage can resting on the floor. It reeks more of water than anything, but I tie the bag off to keep the scent from escaping into the room.
"Maybe the stench will wake him up."
If you had a face, I'd punch it. Fuck off. Now isn't the time for your offensive jokes. He's in a fucking coma.
Shit. Timmy's in a coma. I reach for the clipboard at the end of the bed and just about lose all the stomach acid as well with the two word diagnosis.
Overdose, Narcotics.
no.
No.
NO.
NonononononononononononoNO.
Nope.
NOPE.
No.
I lean over and throw up again into the empty bin. My throat burns with the acidity, but I can't seem to stop. Between lurches I wipe the snot from my face and try not to choke on the tears.
What happened to ruin something so beautiful?
There's a soft knock on the door and I ram my head into the bottom of the bed as I attempt to straighten up. Timmy's heart monitor goes wild.
"Damian?" a female voice calls in, "are you alright in there? Can I come in?"
I take his hand in mine again for courage and watch as the beeping calms down almost instantly. He can't be too far gone if his body is still responding to touch. "Yeah," I say, and my voice is raspy and on the edge of breaking down. It gives away that I'm as destroyed as I look.
The door opens slowly and Mrs. McKinnon enters the space. She's dotting at her eyes with a crumpled tissue and all of a sudden I feel so out of place and stupid. This is his mom, and she's keeping it together extraordinarily well for having her little boy hooked up to machines simply to keep him breathing. I don't have any right to be in the state I'm in.
"Should I call a nurse?" she asks and motions to the bin full of vomit.
I nod, and grip his hand a little tighter.
"I'll have them bring you some scrubs too. You've got it on your shirt." She reaches for a red button on the rail of his bed and pushes it with a perfectly manicured nail. Everything is falling apart yet she has the self-respect to keep herself appearing presentable.
But I see the cracks in the paint.
"The doctors think he'll retain consciousness within the next couple of days," Mrs. McKinnon tells me slowly. "They're just keeping him in here because it's not always pretty when someone wakes up from this sort of thing. Modern day medicine is quite a miracle, isn't it?"
"This is my fault," I mumble to the sheets.
"That's absolutely untrue." She turns to the door where a pristine nurse with a tired looking ponytail enters, holding a set of greenish-blue scrubs in her left hand.
"Thought you might need these. I saw you get sick on the camera. Make sure you drink lots of water, okay? Don't want to get dehydrated." She picks the trashcan up without even flinching and leaves as fast as she came.
"Here," Timmy's mom says, and helps me out of my shirt, and then my sick splattered jeans. I feel like a little kid, shivering almost naked in front of a stranger, unable to take care of the smallest tasks myself. "I had a little boy once, don't worry." She pulls the top over my head, and then does the same with the pants. I'm too lost to object.
"Does your mom know you're here?"
I nod again, and return my hold to the unconscious boy's hand. "She was the one who listened to your message. I didn't even hear it."
"But she had your brother take you." Mrs. McKinnon smiles. "Better than taking you herself. She wouldn't let you have any time alone. That's the way moms are."
"And with good reason. Look what happens when they do."
"Timmy told me you didn't used to talk at all. Sometimes I wish that's how everyone was. It gets overwhelming when all your son does is talk about stuff that you can't even keep up with most of the time. Parenting is just exhausting."
"Should you be saying bad things about him while he's like this?"
She laughs. "I wouldn't consider the truth bad. I love him more than life itself, but sometimes that's what makes it so hard. Whenever I look at him, all I see is this little boy, just ten minutes after he came into this world and I can't believe that he's all grown up so fast."
I can't believe it either.
Timmy's mom looks over at me with the most honest look on her face I've ever seen. "He loves you, Damian. He loves you so much, you can't even comprehend it. He loves everyone, but he loves you more than anyone else. Nobody else's touch could even out his heart rate like yours does."
"I barely even know him. We've only been friends a matter of months, and this past one doesn't even count because he was always somewhere else with someone else and I was just such a coward. I could have stopped this." The sobs start up again, only this time I'm choking more, but not until the rests between each one. It's all backwards. "He shouldn't love me. I'm just fucked up and he's so perfect and I just push everyone away."
"Nobody's perfect, Damian. Not even God. You're here now, aren't you?"
"Too little too fucking late." "He doesn't know that. In his mind, I'm just that distant shadow, smoking my cigarette on the horizon whose cough he can't even hear. I was never distant with Justin. I never let him out of my sight. I don't know why Timmy was any different." I don't know where the words are coming from, but they feel too good to stop. I expect to see Mrs. McKinnon's face twist in horror, but she only smiles softly with each confession.
"I didn't even want to come here. I hate hospitals and I hate dying people and I hate sick people but more than anything I hate people who are dying but aren't sick. It makes me so uncomfortable just being here, I can barely breathe. I didn't want to take the elevator up or walk down the disgustingly clean halls and I didn't want to get out of the car or even into the car in the first place. I didn't want to get out from underneath my sheets and into this goddamn town where it's always too hot or too wet and never has a nice day even when it's snowing. I wish I was the one who died in that car accident instead of Justin because if he was still alive he would have met Timmy and wouldn't have let this happen. He would have taken as good care of him as he took of me and everything would be fine."
There's a painful moment of silence. I've never thought of the quiet as anything other than my friend, but here it's what has me choking. Not the words. The silence makes me want to crawl under a rock and starve until I die.
"You blame yourself for all of this," she finally says.
No shit.
"You blame yourself for his death because you feel like somebody has to carry the responsibility on their shoulders. And for some reason, that job fell on you."
"The driver died too," I tell her in a whisper. "The alcohol didn't cushion the blow like it does sometimes. He died instantly. They both did. I saw it. I was the one who told him to get in that car and I was the one too preoccupied on something stupid to make sure he was wearing his seatbelt. It's my fault. It was some stupid reason, but I seemed to think it was important enough to have to leave the party before anyone was sober enough to take us. I was so stupid."
"You didn't sell my son drugs," Timmy's mom calmly states. "And even the person who did wasn't doing it with the intention on having him end up like this. It's nobody's fault but his for taking them."
"How can you be so calm?"
She gives me a look I haven't seen from my own mother since before I could tie my shoes. It's pure compassion. I almost lose it just because I don't know how to respond to a sign of such kindness.
"Breaking down isn't going to make him wake up any faster. I'm not saying there's anything wrong with doing so, because we all have moments when we lose it, but when he does wake up, I don't want him to think he has to comfort me. I have to stay strong for my little boy."
I rub my thumb over the back of his hand, careful not to disturb the needle breaking the smooth surface. His hands are so soft. In this moment, his hands are the softest thing I can remember. All I can do is experience his hands and the calm skin stretched over such delicate bones. All I can do is feel the veins beneath the surface, deep enough to be protected, but shallow enough to remind me that they're still there. They're scared of being forgotten, just as I am. His hands are so soft. My thumbs are so rough and his skin is the softest thing I've ever felt.
"Come on," Mrs. McKinnon gently touches my upper arm. "Let's go find you something more comfortable to sit in than this all night. It's probably already put your butt to sleep."
I let her lead me away from the boy laying so peacefully amongst his tubes he could almost be mistaken for sleeping.