Saturn - joshler

Gone

One of the last times Tyler sees Josh is the day he leaves.

"It was a pleasure healing you, Tyler." His doctor quips, (Joey, he finds out, is his first name. Cliche.) It sounds like something he says a lot to his patients. The ones without heavy hearts and full bodies. "Let's hope we never see each other ever again."

His parents laugh and look at him, happy. Prideful that their son, their warrior , made it through his first suicide attempt. Not in record time, (His mother always worries about him) but, in time. His father claps a hand on his shoulder, shoving him forward. It throws him off balance for a minute but he recovers because,

"He's strong," His father says, "How long until he's back on the court?"

They all laugh.

'I almost died.' Tyler thinks.

"He should be good to get back at it whenever he wants." Moretti lets him down again. It's almost too bad he doesn't want.

They all laugh again.

Through the windows once frosted with sorrow and "get better"s and cold cold "That's great, honey"s, and after days of wondering ' where? Where is the other me?' Tyler watches him, faded pinks, almost whites laced with black licorice dark browns sticking from the toothpaste blue hood. Sunken in eyes twitching, dodging his own. Lips drawn tight in a straight line. Nothing new. Nothing unique. Not his boy.

Tyler wants to hold him and tell him he isn't going anywhere. Tell him that he's alive and breathing and real. He can touch him and feel him-

"We should get going. We could never thank you enough, doctor." His mother starts the countdown clock, touching his back, guiding him to the door in the wrong way. He wants to shout and shake her hand off his back.

For some reason the way she's protected him his whole life isn't good enough for him anymore because he's seen better, he's felt better, he isselfish, and Josh is almost too far to reach now.

They don't see him, but Tyler does. He reaches out on his way through the door, hoping and praying for a brush of fingertips, something to repair the days he's been without feeling.

Josh's shaking hands drop to his sides as he steps back out of Tyler's reach.

Tyler wants to gasp and scream and run and take his boys hands and ask him why he's shaking, but he made a promise. He keeps his composure, squeezing his eyes shut and letting his mother's hand burn his lower back.

"Let's go home, baby."

•

Home isn't home. Not really.

His bed is there, the same one made of light wood with crisp light blue sheets, but it's not warm.

His things are there, his computer full of half page word documents and audio engineering programs, but he has no motivation to search through it.

His eyes scan over the shelves lining his walls, at the rows upon rows of golden trophies and picture frames holding mocking glimpses of what his life was like, and how it'll never be that way again.

It's not comforting.

He packs the trophies in a box and shoves it into a corner of his basement without asking. It's bearable at least, after that.

The nightmares return, and he doesn't eat for a while, much to his parents' dismay. His nights consist of tossing and turning until one of them rushes in to shake him awake and tell him that everyone's okay. It's humiliating to say the least; the fact that he's awoken every morning not knowing whether or not he'll be the only one alive, when that's the opposite of what he could ever want.

That's why he stays in his room.

Sometimes when he hears a noise outside he imagines it's Josh. 'He found me.' Tyler thinks. 'That's why it's been days he's just been looking.' It's never Josh.

Sometimes it's his siblings, their loud hands and nervous energy bouncing off the walls. Their voices booming "Mom wants you to help make dinner," or "Dad wanted to see if you would meet him outside and play some ball?"

The answer is always, "Maybe later, I'm working on something."

And It's not a lie, he is working on something. Writing and rewriting poems, and letters, the same ' Dear j,' at the top of every one. He just can't figure it out; why his motivation for writing left with the only person he wants to write about.

He drives sometimes, to get it back. His tires glide against the slick of freezing winter roads at night, and it scares him how hopeful he gets. How his fists loosen on the wheel instead of tighten, and how the knots in his chest unravel a little bit. He swears, too, on everything he has that in those moments he sees Josh. Calm, eyes warily staring at him through the rearview mirror from the back seat.

Those eyes he could forever drown in, those eyes that filled him up then left him lonely.

He pulls over then, because it's too much. He punches the dashboard and closes his eyes and talks to the gone-reflection. Tells him how he's been even though he's not there. Even though Josh is gone. He's gone, but god does he miss him. Tyler misses him more than he misses the feeling of his insides breaking down after swallowing those pills. He misses the way he felt blissfully empty, like all the bad things had spilled and the good things had stayed. He misses the shock of his lips and the hum of his hands.

Tyler tells the reflection this, he tells it all of this until there's nothing left. Talking to him always relieves the pressure of ever having to write it out, so he goes home.

His mother makes a deal with him. One meal a day at least.

He agrees after a few days, when he struggles to find his own pulse and decides 'I could eat.'

"Are you doing okay, honey?" She asks him, in the way moms do. He notices the bags forming under her eyes and the way she sits forward on her chair. At any moment she'd be ready to spring into action; to catch him if he fell.

"Yeah," He answers, poking at the scrambled eggs on his plate with a fork, making a healthy effort to look like he's eating them. "I think so."

"Your father and I, we worry about you." She presses, pinching Tyler's collar tighter with her words.

"Sorry," He replies, setting down his fork.

His mother just shakes her head and stands, before dropping a kiss on the top of his head. "Eat your eggs."