"Sticks and stones may break your bones, but, words can break your heart..." I mumbled the lyrics to a Bo Burnham song softly, as I walked to the hospital. My body was incredibly sore from multiple beatings I had received in the previous hours of the day from James and his crew. I didn't care, though. I began to write in a journal the other day. A diary, you could say, but... it's about Ethan. The things I want to do with him. Places I want to go with him, things I want to see with him. If he even still loves me when he wakes up. After all I've put him through, I... wouldn't blame him.I just want him to be happy no matter what. I scrolled through my photos of us together, before coming across a particular one:
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I smiled slightly, putting this as my wallpaper. As I flipped through more pictures, I found one that I didn't even know existed. I'm assuming this was the time I took a picture of Ethan sleeping and posted on Twitter that I was officially a "parent." The picture had a caption of "got emmm"
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I chuckled aloud, saving this picture, too. I stared at my wallpaper, walking toward the hospital. As I entered his room, I saw him. Laying there. In the same position as he was when I first started coming, a month and a half ago. I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket a few times, signaling that I had gotten a text from Mark.
Dick face: I'm coming over soon. To the hospital, I mean. With my guitar. I want to try something. Is that okay? :)
Me: Okay. What are you trying?
Mark: You'll see.
I sighed, putting my phone on a chair next to me. I held Ethan's hand tightly.
"Please stay strong, Ethan. I need you... Please. I can't live without you. I'll go crazy." I whispered softly. I could feel his pain in a way. Seeing him just... lifeless hurt me. It was weird, though, because I'd never had anyone make me feel like that. Not my parents, my siblings, nobody. I stared at Ethan, wondering if he was going to come back to me. What if he didn't? What would I say at his funeral? I didn't even want to think of this, but the thoughts flooded my mind. I soon heard a knock on the door, telling me that Mark was now here. I muttered an expected 'come in', and Mark entered the room carrying a guitar case on his back. He unzipped it, pulled it out, told me to shut the hell up because his guitar tuner picks up sound waves, and tuned it. After, he tossed the tuner aside, and pulled the strap over his neck.
