Lost Overnight

“Hey! You can’t do that” my friend screamed in a fit of hysterical laughter. Apparently, tickling your best friend to death just to win while playing Wii is against the rules of life. It was late, well, early if you want to get technical. We’d been together all day, just being the mates we are really, having fun. I thought I should be with him a bit more, he’s been through some trouble lately, never acting the same. Different. The spark in his eye was gone, I swear even his once golden hair had darkened from pure depression. I was worried for him. But today, seemed he was happy, just hanging out. We finished off the Wii with a slight tickle war, very manly I know. We put on a movie, not sure even what genre it was I fell asleep so quickly. My sleep was empty of dreams, but livened with the new memories of the day, ones I may cherish for a while.

I awakened, maybe not that long after falling asleep. I stared at the dark ceiling, my night-eyes still not developed. Shapes started to materialise, the dresser, home to a few stuffed animals and a bland office lamp. The wardrobe my head was resting upon, adorned in band and movie posters. My bag, which I had brought, was leaning against his bedside table housing his laptop and my phone. It was then I noticed it, a light sobbing. I then saw my friends golden hair reflecting the small amount of moonlight, swaying in the way one does when crying. I shook my head, my friend never cries? Go back to sleep.

I tried. Through sobbing, I heard a sharp inhale, then a gasp. A shrill gasp only made when in pain. It was no longer just my imagination. I leap up to see my friend, my best friend in the whole world, sobbing. Then I see it, a flash from his fingertips and a light glow on his arm. Blood, seeping from fresh wounds snaked down his forearm, and the culprit behind the damage in his fingers. I yelp, leaping forward to stop him, but he pulls away. In the short struggle, he groans as a large tear appears down his bicep; I scream and hit the razor from his hands. I care not for the new slice in my own hand, but press on my friend’s wound and plea for help.

It was awful waiting in the ER. My closest friend, in hospital because he couldn’t handle life anymore. I sat in the hard plastic chair, the white stereotypical of hospitals singing my eyes and only making them weep more than they already were. The nurses hustled around and messed behind their desks, the moans of the other patients wafting through the halls. None of these distracted me from my silent prayers that my best friend would make it out of this retched place. I don’t even believe in god, but I was asking for him now. My stomach lurched.

A doctor was walking towards me, and I knew he was for me and my friend’s parents, and I knew I wouldn’t like the news. I didn’t. What do you do? What do you do when you’re blatantly told by the devil in green and white that your best friend is dying? You die inside yourself. My stomach knotted, my eyes throbbed and my knees gave way. I hit the cold floor, the linoleum relentlessly clawing at my knees. I broke down, in front of everyone. Me, the emotional fortress, gave up. I ran to his bed, and pulled him into my arms. I stayed like that for days, I didn’t eat, I didn’t bathe. I didn’t leave his arms. It was maybe two days, two days of him in my arms, with me whispering for him not to leave me. He stirred, and I leapt in excitement, but he pulled me back into the extended embrace and said, “I’m sorry, forgive me.”

He fell back onto the bed. I forget now, I heard a long, unending beep and the rush of nurses and doctors. “CLEAR! 1, 2, 3, CLEAR!” Next thing, I’m in my own hospital bed, with all my other friends. It was nice, but it wasn’t them I wanted.