Fix Me

4: Oliver

It's not a good day. The pre-sunrise sky too large, the humming of the hospital too loud, and I never want to leave this room, this bed, again. I hear Jax rustling around in his drawer; he's in a good mood today. I don't even know why he's awake. Then, I feel something flutter onto the end of my bed, just a whisper of a touch. I peek out of the blankets.

It's a rectangle of paper, folded so small that it's nearly ceased existing. Glancing at Jax, who's suddenly become very occupied with sifting about in his drawer, I pick the paper up. After managing to unfold it without tearing it too much, a small, sour, shriveled up smile creeps onto my face.

It's a drawing of the view from our window: telephone lines with little black birds on them against an alabaster, winter sky. Above it are the words, "fly away" in small, scratchy, cursive letters. I'm not sure why he made it, or when, or even what it means, but I'm struck with a sense of gratitude for Jax. When I look up again, his grey eyes have locked with mine.

On impulse, I scoot over a bit, patting one half of my thin, hospital-issue twin bed. "Come. I wanna tell you a story."

To my surprise, the boy complies, slipping across the room and into my bed nearly silently. He helps himself to a heap of my comforter, looping it around his small torso, then turns on his side to look up at me expectantly.

I scoot a bit further back to allow a bit of room to spread out between us, then take a deep breath. I can feel the darkness snatching away at the edges of my soul, fight to keep it at bay. Jax is in my bed, and he's been promised a story. "Let's say, there is a boy. He has loving parents, and a beautiful little sister, and everything is going pretty well for him in life. He's always liked birds, the way they dive almost into the ground before soaring away. He wonders what they're flying for, where they're flying to. He wants to be a fighter jet pilot someday.

"He's a little different from other kids. Not in the traditional sense of being quieter, or shyer, or more attracted to bugs than the average 11 year old. He's just... Odd. When his friends bring up girls, he stays very quiet, always very quiet. And, when they say things about dating, and parties, the boy always feels uncomfortable. His parents are very religious people, the type that always say grace, and have family Bible study on Wednesdays." I peer at Jax to make sure that he's listening, and he nods at me.

"When he starts middle school, he finds out that his little sister has cancer. Someone much older and smarter about these kinds of things explains to the boy that his sister will become very weak, and her hair will fall out. She'll be sick often, and very thin, but she will get better. And the boy, stupid fool that he is, believes this wise being. So, he give his sister origami cranes, and sparrows. He draws her cardinals, robins; woodpeckers were her favorites. He smiles at her every time he sees her, buys her cool new hats, and makes her tomato soup.

"Then, one day, it gets a little harder for him to smile at her when he gets home. Some older kids push him around in the hallway, for being shorter, for being different. And those kids have friends who do worse things. The boy, though, keeps on trucking, because his little sister needs him, you know?

"But, things get worse every day. The kids lock him in a gym closet for an entire school day, and no one comes looking for him. He doesn't tell his parents that he can't be a pilot anymore because he gets shaky around small spaces now. The kids put a dead bird in his locker. He doesn't want to draw his little sister birds anymore, but it's okay, because she likes horses better, anyways.

"So, this keeps happening, for years. He keeps getting pushed around more and more, and his parents don't notice because his sister is sick, and he keeps on not saying anything because he needs to smile for her..." I cover my mouth with a shaking hand, frustrated at my inability to just tell him the fucking story, and lock gazes with Jax. We stare at one another until I feel a little less like crying.

"Then, she dies. Out of the blue, just when she starts looking better, on the edge of remission by all reports, she dies." I draw in a shaky, shallow breath. "And, the boy, he sort of loses it. His parents cry and send him away so that they can finalize funeral arrangements that they made long ago. He's looks outside his window, and there's this telephone pole, you know, with the electric lines coming from it. And, on the pole, are these little black birds, maybe crows or sparrows.

"They all fly away, in a pack, except for this one little bird that gets left behind. It doesn't even try to fly, it just sits there, and then it drops. Like a rock, a bowling ball, something lifeless, flightless. And the boy sees himself in that bird. Different from the rest, too much this, too much that, never enough for anyone. And, he's tired of it. So, he opens his window."

I close my eyes, replaying the moment. "The air is really crisp, and cold, it's so cold. The sky is blue, not just normal blue, like hella blue. And the apartment is on the fifth floor, so it's high enough for it to be kinda scary, but also exhilarating. The boy rests his feet on the window box, and leans forward to look at the street. There isn't really that much traffic, but enough people around to notice him jump. So, he leans forward, preparing himself for the last hurrah, and he slips." I shake my head, opening my eyes, barking out a harsh laugh.

"He slips off of the window sill, and he doesn't have enough momentum to kill himself, he just looks like death and feels it, too, and now he's stuck in this stupid, fucking hospital because he can't even off himself correctly, and every one of his bullies still sends him cards to make sure that he damn well knows it..." I bury my face in my hands, fighting away tears. Sighing, I mumble, "I'm sure that you, at least, have a better story than that."

There's a long pause, drawn out blank spaces, then, "No, yours is better. I walked into traffic. This is my third attempt."

I whip my head over to look at Jax, and I can tell from his expression that he wishes he hadn't said anything. He just rolls over, hiding his face.

"Jax." He doesn't say anything. I slip my hand into his upturned palm. He doesn't move his hand to wrap it around mine, doesn't squeeze back. But, he doesn't pull it away, either.

I consider it progress.

A/N:

I JUST WROTE TWO CHAPTERS IN LIKE TWO HOURS AND IDK IF THEY'RE GOOD BC IT'S LIKE 1 AM BUT I'M POSTING THEM ANYWAYS.

Please, leave a comment, vote, whatevs. This has left me emotionally exhausted. Thanks you reading.

Love you

xx