NIKKI & JOE, CASUALLY |

63: if you ever wonder what dying feels like

            I tap on Cece's door, then knock louder in case they've got their headphones clamped over their ears. There's no response to either, nor is there one when I call his name, so I push the door ajar—not enough to see inside but enough to get his attention from the movement—and ask again. 'Can I come in?'

There's shuffling, then a taut "fine".

I open the door properly just as Cece pulls their hoodie over a loose t-shirt. Their eyes scythe to me as soon as they emerge from the black fabric. 'What're ya doing here? Ain't you got work?'

'I decided to take the day off.'

I also decide to ignore their sneer as I move into their room. Their sketchbook is shut on the bed, several of the Promarkers I got them for their birthday littered on the duvet. 

'Thought we could hang out.'

I tuck my hands into my trouser pockets and sway on the spot, allowing my gaze to glide over the torn-out notebook pages of drawings they've taped to their walls, probably to cover up the sky-blue paint. When they first moved in, I did say we could repaint and get summat more into the room than a chest of drawers and a metal-framed bed but Cece only laughed. "D'you make a habit of decorating hotel rooms too?"

But... they don't feel that way anymore, do they?

My attention veers to the locks on the door. It didn't have any when they moved in but Cece fastened several bolts to keep it shut. A door chain. A latch guard. Silicone seals the gap underneath.

'We could go to TK Maxx or round the charity shops. You never did decorate.' I gesture at the sketches of hellhounds and red-striped wasps above their head. 'I'll let ya paint that stuff directly on the wall.'

Cece slots his eyes to mine only to ensure I face the full brunt of his disinterest before he drops to lie down on the bed. Their curls jut like barbed wire around their face, and for a second I'm pleased to see the length his hair has gained since summer, but the matting at the roots quickly extinguishes that excitement. Their face gaunt and feathered with that pale fuzz I noticed at Christmas. The wispy hairs must cover the rest of his body too–

Even after I spent another half hour crying in my car before coming inside, I have to wrestle back a sob when I realise I've not seen their arms since August. How did I not notice?

How the fuck did I not notice? The coffee, the nosebleeds, the way they turned down meal after meal.

This whole time, I've been talking about how much better he is doing now... Talking about how I'm better now, but I'm just as bad at this as ever. They've not been using blades or their lighter but this is just as bad. I should've noticed.

Fact: I shouldn't be trusted to take care of him. They shouldn't trust me. Fact: I'm a failure.

'You wanna watch telly?' I ask, grateful when my voice comes out steady. 'We can go to the cinema? Last time we went to the cinema, you were, like, eleven. You insisted we go see some Tinkerbell film.'

They mutter summat.

'What?'

'It's called Secret of the Wings,' they grind at the ceiling. 'Not "some Tinkerbell film".'

I stare, unable to tell if they're just taking the piss. When there's no grin or eye roll, I assume not. 'Right, sorry. So no cinema? I could braid your hair. Or we can cook summat. They're still selling discount gingerbread dough, we could decorate those. That's a new medium for ya: icing. I'll let ya make all the people dead and bloody. Eh?'