helium balloons

ss: Good Grief

"So, what would you little maniacs like to do first?" 

That sentence drops from your lips, shatters on the sterile floor. I am sitting, stunned, in your hospital room. It's quiet. It's cold. Everything is a smear around you. 

You're balanced at the edge of the bed in an all blue gown, barefoot with scuffed up red toenails. Your hair is slightly knotted. You look beautiful, but it looks all wrong. My mind has difficulty piecing everything together.

I don't want to breathe, don't want to move, don't want time to tick forwards. Let's just stay here. Or go backwards to before this room, before you blacking out, before you being sick, before finding you passed out in the kitchen, before... Let's reread instead of turning the page.

You're smiling. It's real, stretched across your face, a devious glint in your eyes. Your left eyebrow is quirked, and you're waiting for us to answer your question. My stomach turns. I feel sick.

You roll your eyes, "Honestly, Jack,  it's just a diagnosis. I could get better. In the mean time, let's do something. No point in moping now."

Henry takes in a shaky breath beside me and forces a smile on his lips. I try my best to follow suit.

*****

You don't get better. You make a bucket list. It's too long. There's too much to do and there's too little time and you get tired but you're still determined and, "I'm not going to finish, am I?" you ask me.

You cry into my arms and I can't make things better and I'm holding your fragile body too tightly because I'm afraid of what might happen if I let go. You're the strong one, not me, and now, with your teardrops on my shirt, I don't know what to do.

Time's running out. Time's sprinting to the finish line. I can't catch up and tell him to stop for you.

What's going to be left of the world if you're not in it?

*****

You're a skeleton. Your rib cage is sharp under your hospital gown. There's a monotonous drone. A red line on a screen. Your chest climbs, but doesn't fall. Your eyes aren't closing. My mind goes white. Your hand drops from mine. I don't know what to do. Your face is pale and there's a smile on your face because you're glad it's over.

But it's not over for me. I'm breathing too fast, like I'm breathing for the two of us. My chest is falling apart. It's all falling apart. I'm crying into your hair. I want you to tell me to stop. I want you to tell me what to do next. I want you to tell me something, anything.

"Nicky!" I say.

"Nicky!" I scream, but you don't move. "Nicky Nicky Nicky Nicky." What do I do? What do I do? What am I supposed to do?

Someone rips me from you. I'm all numb, but everything hurts. Everything windmills around me. I'm pulled into a clumsy hug. "Count to ten, son." The voice comes through sobs. My dad takes your hand, rubs slow circles, grieves.

I sink to the floor. My hands press the tears to my face. You're dead. You're dead. Dead. Too quick. Gone. I've lost you.

I squeeze my eyes shut. One... two... Why does it take so long to get to ten? It takes too long to help.

I don't think I can do it. I can't do it without you. Nicky. I can't. What do I do?

Three... four...

*****

I have never been more than seventeen minutes from you, and now I've lasted a week. My eyes are swollen. My suit's too tight. It's always so hard to breathe.