Already Gone

20

TW: suicidal mentions

dream

George was sat opposite me on the side of his bed, browsing through his phone. Judging by the past few hours, I had gathered that he rarely left his room. I was sat in the corner, giving him some space. He was giving signs that he didn't want me to get too close to him, which was understandable, as much as it hurt.

I wondered whether he got bored. 

"Right, come on. We're going out." I decided, starting recovery right then and there.

I didn't really know how best to comfort him, or help him, or make him better. George was slightly unpredictable and definitely difficult to read, and although I knew him better than anyone, this situation was unfamiliar to me. 

So I took a bold move and thought that getting him out of the house would be a good idea.

"What? No, I'm not." He didn't get defensive or anything, his voice was bland.

"Yes, you are." I bounced up and came round to his side of the bed, placing both his hands in mine and hoisting him up.

He was more than reluctant.

His hair was still messy from yesterday's incident, tumbling slightly past his eyebrows. He probably hadn't got it cut in months, but it looked good. Longer hair made George look pretty.

George could be the worst person in the world and still look pretty to me. 

As he stood up, it felt like he was trying to drag me back down with him. He really didn't want to go...

"I get it, you don't wanna come, but you are and I'm not letting you stay. Come on George." I sighed, knowing that this path to recovery would not be easy, especially if he wasn't willing to try.

It was difficult. George was right, I could pick up my stuff, and fly back to Florida, leaving him here to suffer - to fade away again. And with most people, I would leave. It doesn't feel like my responsibility, and the idea that I could fail them was too much to handle.

I was usually the kind of guy who would see everything as a positive opportunity, I wouldn't want to mingle too closely with things that could end in disaster.

But George was different.

Something about George pulled me to him - I felt like I was sent here as his savior. I felt that my presence's purpose was solely to heal George.

And if it didn't work... if it didn't work I didn't know what would happen.

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

We stepped briskly out of the block behind us, the chilly air reddening the tips of our noses. Our breaths were foggy and white, visible to the eye. The wintery London weather was far colder than I had expected it to be.

George had around four layers on but was still shivering.

I didn't really know where to take us, I had never been to London before. Fresh air was good for George.

I folded my arm over his shoulders, rubbing his arm to let him know that I was aware that he was cold, and that I was proud of him for getting out, but to my dismay, he shrugged it off almost immediately. It made me stuff my gloved hand straight back in my pocket.

Apparently, this George did not enjoy physical touch.

London was busier than the small area that I stuck to in Orlando. Crowds of bustling people crossed the black and white zebra crossings, people cursing at each other casually, people late for work, people angry about the weather, people being generally rude filled the streets. I didn't like London.