Holding On

Where Do We Go

“Hey,” says Zayn as he enters my room. His voice is strong and unwavering, but behind his deep tone, I can hear him choking up. “Hi,” I reply. We never really say anything anymore, because whichever path we take in our conversation always gets to the same dead end. When we talk, we try to escape the real problem, but that’s a waste of time when we always return to the depressing truth. “So what’re you playing?” he asks, sitting in the chair next to my bed. “Black Ops II,” I reply simply. Every syllable hurts to choke out, but I hide this. Just because I have to live through the pain, doesn’t mean Zayn has to. “Cool. Behind the barrel!” he exclaims, and I hide behind the wine-filled container. That’s pretty much what I’ve done the past two months – hid behind a solid object. Whether it’s Zayn, Liam, or even my own depressed bubble, I’ve always been hiding from the fact that my death is imminent. The opposing soldier completely forgets I’m there, but I know my illness won’t forget I’m here, just pretend not to see me to make this even more painful. As I come out from behind the barrel, the doctor walks in. Maybe I’ve been too heavy on the metaphors and jinxed myself. Zayn gets up to leave, but I grab his wrist. “No, stay,” I reply. He doesn’t say anything, just smiles and sits back down. The doctor slides a needle into my arm and I get an urge to squirm and pull away, but I don’t make any movement, because that’d only make it worse. Zayn watches on with fear as the doctor takes the vial of blood and replaces the needle with a small Band-Aid. “So what’ll you do if it’s a bad result?” I ask him. “Don’t talk like that,” he replies, refusing to accept my dying. “Zayn, you know everyone dies sooner or later. The only difference is that I’m one of those sooner people.” I rub my arm where the Band-Aid is. “But I don’t want you to be a sooner person! I want you to hold on as hard as you can,” he says. “I don’t want to hold on anymore. Death feels so good.  It’s dark and warm and I feel… well… better,” I reply. He doesn’t say anything, just wipes the tears from his eyes. “What do you think happens when you die?” he asks, throat thick. “You first,” I say. “I reckon you don’t know that you’re dead. You keep living your life, but it’s all in your head, like a dream state. “So you could be dead and I could be a figure of your imagination,” I chuckle, as much as it hurts to do so. He laughs back, and I can’t hold back my smile. “What do you think happens?” he asks me, all traces of joking gone. “I think you’re just, y’know… there. Laying in the blackness. Aware that you’re dead, but unaware of the place,” I tell him. He nods, as if analysing the information. We fall into silence and stop looking at each other. I can hear the tears drip from his face and am fairly sure he can hear mine too. After ten minutes, Zayn speaks. “Are you scared?” he asks me, voice cracking in multiple syllables. “Nope,” I reply, also choking up. “And will you wait for me?” he continues. I nod. “Meet me over London,” I smile, and that’s when we start to sob. Although it feels as if the motion will crack my bones, I squeeze him in the biggest hug I’ve ever given. “I’ll miss you, Mate,” he tells me. “I won’t be far. Even if you can’t see me, I promise I’ll be there,” I tell him. Because this is all I can promise.