Natalie
When words fail, music speaks. The phrase stands true tonight, as any other moment. Hans Christian Anderson was right.
Closing my eyes, I wait for the next rasp of Winn's voice. Though, the melody strings me in further, enveloping me in the music. If I were to believe in magic, maybe I would claim this performance as one. If anything, I could claim this as a distraction for my mind, bending my brain's reality into something blurred and vividly unclear.
Three thoughts form the rubble situated within my head, never fading. For those thoughts, no distraction will ever prevail.
One, the LE isn't pursuing the case.
Two, this is Winn's last gig.
Three, he's terminating treatment.
"Reading minds. Shooting fire. Super strength and laser eyes. We got the average supernatural show." His fingers dance along the neck of his guitar as he continues to the chorus. Baring his fingers, Winn stares at me, a spark kindling in his eyes. Something shines within him, a trace of feeling that remained dormant throughout the last one or two dozen top-hit pop songs.
He wrote this. I swallow hard, taking another breath. The sequential notes flow, transporting my mind further into his novel music. He slaps the side of his guitar, creating a rhythmic beat to accompany the tune. "See the good and help the bad. Pretend heroes aren't just comic strips."
I run my hand through my chestnut hair while my boneheaded mind wanders to my mother. The way her eyes keenly stared me down yesterday, deducing the changes since she last saw me. She changed. She was calm, too collected as she stated her case. The oddest bit of this over-dramatic situation is that she willingly dropped the case after seeing me. Why? I'm beginning to believe she cares.
Again, Winn bars his fingers against the board, pressing his lips into a thin line. He doesn't glance up to skim the crowd like before but keeps his eyes sealed shut, continuing to what I believe is the second verse. "Dreaming of a world where everybody sees a superhero in disguise, helping those in need. Maybe not a comic hero destined by the stars, but I'd rather dream of those with bigger hearts."
The music waves through me, settling in my head on a never-ending track. For once, I don't mind the song replaying in my mind. A thick chunk of saliva slides down my throat at my next thought.
He's going into hospice. My stomach churns with the thought.
"Supernatural disappear. Now we just got people here." Winn's voice trails, sending yet another chill down my spine. "We all got superpowers."
Vaguely, I register Winn speaking into his mic, packing his guitar away, and sauntering toward me. He will never do... that again. Circling like a bee around a flower, the gears in my head rotate in predictable motions, turning with each slice of information. He won't be here next year... month... week even.
"Too bad you can't get a record for that original," I manage to say, shaking myself much like yesterday, out of a trance of disbelief and dread. After all, the LE is a stress-inducing topic along with Winn's new shared end-of-life course.
Winn only grins, making my chest ache. He won't be smiling on his deathbed. "I recorded it." He holds a small recorder in his palm, raising a brow. "Don't know what you're going to do with it, but I'll download to my phone and send it over." He accompanies his statement with a shrug as if this is the most important topic at hand.
What about everything else end-of-life related? The hospice care papers? Informing loved ones? Checking up on assets? Freeing yourself of obligations?
I won't say those dooming words. Never. Not when I can capture the glow in Winn's eyes, only exemplified with his last song.
"Good." I choke the word out, walking to his batmobile in a daze.
Stare, that's all I can do. Pulling out from the parking lot, I clench my jaw tighter, wishing for the burn in my chest to disappear as Winn talks about the composition of his song, dissecting the nitty-gritty digits of the chord progressions and his choice of time signature.
I can't focus.
This is a different brand of tiring. Winn may not survive the night. Yet, with the thought in mind, I let his keys slip from my fingers and carry myself to my Volvo parked adjacent to the sidewalk. Watching him stride inside his house doesn't ease the sharp convulsion growing in my stomach.
Seeing him in the passing day doesn't help, nor does seeing his hospice paperwork two days later, still beaming a blinding smile. If anything, his smile shoots me in the chest. Each smile tears my insides apart, doing more damage than I could ever do.
Winn's grin doesn't falter on his first day in the hospital. He doesn't blend in with the other humans there, not when he keeps up his makeup regime. "At least I'm not dry as a desert," he jokes, pointing to his unwrinkled arms.
I let myself laugh, reigning my thoughts into a net, never to come alive. "You've got that going for you," I agree, scanning the room again. My gaze travels from the pastel yellow walls to the open window with an AC positioned directly under the seal. The television rests a blank black in contrast to the machine beside Winn, unused for now, that hums in the most menacing manner that an inanimate object can.
I can only watch.
The decrepit process only takes one day to destroy his appetite drop and install another episode of unbreathing coughs. He only beams, pulling his guitar from the furthest corner of the room, and plays. I sit and stare, only managing to breathe out of need.
He tilts his head, his smile widening. "What do you call it when friends like each other?" he pauses, "No, not a trick question."
Closing my eyes, I force my back into the thinly cushioned seat. "Not a crush," I mutter, my brain scavenging that kind of "love".
"We should make up a name." Winn sits upright, not hiding his hobble. He freezes, and his shoulders slump. "There's already a name." He frowns and flops on the fake leather loveseat shoved in the corner. "It's called 'just friends'." He air quotes, rolling his eyes. "I've seen it with Scramble."
"What do you mean?" For once, my brain allows me to dial into the conversation. I wish we could stay frozen like this. Very alive and breathing as living organisms do. Though, I suppose you're still living when you pass as biotic matter.
Winn grabs a green pen from his bag, flicking the object. "It means we act like a couple but haven't called anything." He jerks his head at me. "I'm not implying anything," he emphasizes the word, "We don't need to be anything more than just friends."
"That ended when we kissed." Clicking my tongue to the roof of my mouth, I swing my legs to cross. "Technically, breaking the word into parts with no connotation, it means a friend of the male gender."
"So, I'm your boyfriend?" Winn doesn't hold back a snort.
"Exactly." I'm sure my smile doesn't reach my eyes. Letting the conversation play in my head, I hit replay, committing the interaction to memory. This may be the last day...
Exhaling, I'm back the sequential three days, noting how his energy plummets. On day four of my return, his vision blurs. By the end of my visit, Winn stares at me, mouth gaping open, forced to remain on the hospital bed.
His voice comes in a gurgle, and he clenches his right hand, unable to mimic the action on his left. The words are incoherent, dragging my head further into a pit of angst, making me jerk awake at night thinking of his palling face and weakened movements, knowing he won't apply makeup or play his guitar anymore.
I'll see everything.
The burn in my chest refuses to relent. All I can count are the hours until I see Winn again, still breathing steadily. As I tread through the double doors of the wing, my feet acting as weights, a figure exits Winn's room, rubbing their eyes with the back of their hand. The figure, a man, dressed in a loose, washed-out dress shirt and equally decrepit pants, numbly stumbles past me, rushing to the nearest nurse who shoots me a warm smile.
Inhaling, I take my time with the door, pushing the wood open in one fail swing. My heart doesn't slow its marathon pace, only gaining speed as if the finish line is in sight. A crumpled loose-leaf page slumps at the end of Winn's bed. His fingers reach for the paper, but paralysis works its magic, rendering him unable. My jaw clenches as I place the scrap in Winn's hand, noting the page has FROM DAD scrawled in a printer-like font. The knowledge of its written fashion comes from the glint of lead off the paper.
Clumsily Winn unfolds the paper with his right hand, pushing himself up and grunting. His mouth opens, but no words fall out. Again, he lets his lips part, forming a lisp. He furrows his eyebrows and motions to the paper, his ear, and his backpack.
I stalk to his backpack, producing a notebook and one of his many green pens. "This?" I question while flapping the items in the air. Winn nods and taps the inscribed paper. "Text to speech or hold it up?" He flicks his hand up, wincing. I manage a nod, no curiosity budding in my chest. Only a dull ache spins there, weaving a web of depressing thoughts and feelings.
Winn's pupils dart left to right, blinking more rapidly as he continues. He coughs, squeezing his eyes shut. The action shoots my brain into action, still operating on autopilot. "Do you need water?" I ask after his eyes fix on me.
He nods, parting his mouth in an inaudible "thank you".
I retreat from his room, blindly shuffling to the vending machine across the hall and inserting change. A dull ache builds in the forefront of my head, causing me to press the area in a weak attempt to eliminate the annoyance.
When I return, Winn stares ahead, the notebook open and green pen dropped beside, still clicked open. His face could easily compare to the pure white hospital blankets. He gestures to the paper, his hand shaking.
I don't want to sit here like a rotten potato. The note reads.
I swallow hard, barely managing to stare him in the eyes, grappling the blanket between my fingers. Winn reaches for the notebook and balances it on his right knee as he scribbles furiously against the paper.
I want to be palliatively sedated. I can feel it. Winn flashes his best smile, a small curve of his lips. See, I did my research.
I can only gulp while staring at the paper. "Do you..." My eyes remain closed as the words slip from my mouth. "Do you want me to tell your doctor?"
Winn motions for the notebook, writing. I already did. In two hours.
My heart slams on the accelerator. This is where Winn draws his final breath. Taking in his watery hazel eyes and ghost-like face, I nod, reaching for his hand. Rocking on my heels, my shoulders shake as I stare, just stare at him, gripping his hand tighter. I take care to lock my thoughts in the bounds of good memories, the ones where we first met by crashing into each other and when Winn laughed about me nearly poisoning him and when we shared quiet conversation at the busiest football game of the year and when Winn regularly stopped me in the hallway to say hi and all the times he never failed to shoot a smile my way and when he asked me to join Scramble and when he shared his fear of heights and when I told him about my wasteland and when he let me into his problems and when he rode the Ferris wheel and when he played his song and when he grins here, on his deathbed and when I never end the run on.
I don't want the run-on to end, no matter how many grammar rules the sentence breaks or how many breaths one needs to take to complete it. I would rather that be the case, but I know better. The run-on ends here. Grammar wins.
A drip of water slips from my eyes. My chest burns as time ticks on, ignoring my silent pleas for the movement to stop. Logically, I know that is impossible. Time won't stop. I have to stand at the edge of a skyscraper, watching Winn fall, not scared, but smiling before he hits the ground. He won't form a crumpled, disfigured body, but he'll disappear, resting in a depth no one can see.
He will never come back.
I let the thought sink through my skull and grapple with all the positivity I can muster. My heart still pounding, I release Winn's hand, wiping my eyes, letting myself charge at my thoughts, undeterred by the weight. I am strong enough. Why would the guy who never lets a frown slip want me to fold into a disheveled mess?
He isn't gone yet.
Clutching his hand tighter, I smile.
I smile, not because I'm happy but because I want Winn to know I'm here, okay, and not letting go. He grins, a tiny curve of a beam, squeezing my hand back, letting me know he's still here, breathing, alive.
Thank you for everything, Winn.
Thank you for being a friend.
__________
Total Word Count: 39,910