Saturn - joshler

Reaper

Tyler shouldn't be alive.

An hour ago he was sitting at his kitchen table, nervously clutching a bottle of his brother's painkillers. His blunt nails scratched at the dark wood below his palms and his feet tapped sharp against the linoleum. He had an hour. An hour would've been plenty of time. He could've swallowed every last little white pill in that bottle and had been done with it. Done with pretending there was anything left in him. Seventeen years was more than enough.

Unfortunately though, whoever was looking out for him was extremely intrusive because 45 minutes after he'd downed the bottle his family had come home early. Of course Tyler had moved and was passed out on the bathroom floor. He might've had a flare for the dramatic but he wasn't going to make dinners awkward from there on out.

Still, that wasn't the point.

The point was that he survived and he wasn't fucking supposed to. His mother wasn't supposed to fall to her already bad knees in horror. His sister wasn't supposed to run off crying, her blonde hair sticking to her tear streaked cheeks. His father wasn't supposed to scream at his brother to grab the phone, to "call 911 do something god damn it."

He wasn't supposed to be rushed to the emergency room. He wasn't supposed to make a big deal out of this.

None of that was supposed to happen because he was supposed to be gone before any of them came home.

Now, he's only sort of gone. He's phasing in and out of consciousness as he suffocates on a stretcher.

The last thing he remembers is someone, a woman in her late 20s, telling his parents that they were going to pump his stomach. This was a normal day for her. She was only doing her job. She was going to go home later that day, slip off her shoes, turn on the TV, watch a few reruns, then fall asleep on her living room couch before emerging groggily from unconsciousness at 4am and doing it all again.

The next thing he remembers is waking up. Which is something he obviously didn't want to do. So he whines, high and soft from his chest.

This seems to stir a reaction because his mother is standing over him now. He can't feel much of anything but he thinks he feels hot tears drop on the skin of his forearm. He wishes he had the strength to wipe them off. Get them off before he loses his mind.

The room is hazy and Tyler can't really focus. The TV in the corner blares something similar to Judge Judy and the IV in the crook of his elbow itches.

A team of nurses rushes into the room in slow motion, checking Tyler's vitals, pulling back the tape securing the needle in his arm then replacing it. They don't do much else. Just give him pitiful looks and take turns asking him if he can hear them.

He nods.

Then he remembers his mom. Why is she crying? He thinks. What have I done now to make her cry? He notices his father next, towering. Gripping his mother's shoulders like a guardian. Like a great protector. He looks down at Tyler, telling him with dark eyes that he'll never be fit to take his place. He'll never take care of her now. Not after this.

Then he remembers that he tried to kill himself. Somehow, the act of trying doesn't strike him as awfully as knowing he failed.

"Tyler, we were so worried." His mother cries, her tears still falling over him, bathing him in guilt and saltwater. Drop after drop. "How could you do this to us. How could you scare us like that."

Tyler tries to speak, tries to tell them that " It was never about you. I could only see one clear way out. Seeking solace doesn't make me fucking selfish."

But the words don't come out. His mouth opens and drool falls down his chin.

"You're lucky to be alive, Mr. Joseph."

Tyler could only figure by the sound of his voice that this was his doctor. He strides into the room with practiced ease, and runs his hand through dark thinning hair with thick fingers. Tyler assumes he has a perfect marriage, 4 grown children, and takes a golf holiday once a month. And he's a goddamn liar.

The doctor hands Tyler a Styrofoam cup full of water. His hands shake and tremble and he almost spills it all over himself but good lord it tastes like heaven. It coats his throat and hallelujah it's a miracle. He can speak.

"Go fuck yourself." Is the first thing he says.

A mixture of his parents' voices boom in Tyler's ears.

His mother's a familiar, "Tyler Robert!"

His father's, "Watch it young man."

The doctor just laughs and waves a thick hand through the air. "No, it's alright Mr And Mrs Joseph it's quite alright I understand. You did attempt suicide. The least I could do is avoid phrases like 'you're lucky to be alive.'"

The tone of the doctor's voice sends Tyler sinking back into the bed. Shrinking so so small and bringing a hand to his throat brushing soft fingertips against his adam's apple as he gulps. "I'm sorry."

"You were in a coma, Tyler." The doctor pulls up a stool, one of the rolling ones, and sits like a doctor does. Khaki legs spread and apologetic healing hands clasped together on his lap. "You overdosed on oxycodone three weeks ago yesterday. Your liver almost failed." The doctor twists the silver band of his wedding ring around his finger. "About 70 more minutes unconscious and your entire respiratory system would've been paralyzed, and you would've suffocated."

Tyler's heart rate increases when he stores this information. A coma. Another hour was all he needed.

He didn't even come close.

"Luckily, that didn't happen. Three weeks is a week above standard for cases like this- your system was already pretty weak as it was- so your muscles have just begun atrophying, and you'll be much weaker for a while. But," He seems to finish, standing up and brushing his hands off on his pants. "We're probably only looking at another month or two of observation and recovery."

Tyler throws a glance his parents' way, overwhelmed by all this information. By the looks on their faces they've heard it all before and every time it does not fail to be just as painful as the first. He realizes then that if he'd died, they'd still hear it. They would be standing over their dead son in a morgue getting the same lecture.

What's sad is, Tyler thinks knowing this beforehand wouldn't have changed his mind.

"By the way," The doctor walks up to Tyler's bed, narrowly missing the side that juts out just so that the healthy people don't get too close to the ill. Be it physically or otherwise. He takes Tyler's hand, his own surprisingly strong, introducing himself in a heavy chicago accent, "I'm Dr. Moretti."

Tyler sits up further but doesn't respond. Just watches him leave.