Paris Wills is a dreamer. His father always said he got it from his mom, an artist who was unlike any other. Her virtue was painting, and Paris' is poetry. No matter where he is, Paris finds inspiration for his poems.
In the summer after his sophom...
I don't care. I haven't left the hospital since Thursday, and I don't intend to leave anytime soon.
Nevertheless, I understand their concern. I already missed school on Friday, the day after Paris' accident. At least, that's what everyone keeps calling it. It wasn't an accident though. There were dozens of rocks in Paris' pockets and shoes. He went to that bridge to die.
I knew he was fragile, but I didn't think he was that close to crumbling. I shouldn't have left him that afternoon. If only I had stayed there with him instead of storming out. Then maybe he wouldn't be lying unconscious in a hospital bed.
Yet I did what he wanted. I left. Just because he wanted to be left alone doesn't mean that was what he needed. When he came onto me that day, it was a cry for help, and I ignored it. I shrugged it off, assuming we both needed time alone. Walking out on him was the biggest mistake of my life.
I already abandoned him once. I refuse to leave him stranded again.
***
This is the fifth day I've been at the hospital. Paris' room has a big bay window that looks out onto the coastline, capturing a magnificent view of the crystal cyan waves crashing against the unassuming shore. It seems too picturesque for a sterile hospital consumed with suffering.
A long bench seat rests in front of the window. I sit there all day, waiting. When it gets late, and my eyes can't stay open any longer, I lay down and drift to sleep. Every so often I'm awoken by a faint shuffle or soft noise, wondering if its Paris stirring from his endless sleep. The night plays tricks on my mind, fooling me into believing that Paris has returned to me. Instead, I'm left completely alone.
Paris' aunt and dad are here too. I'd never even met either of them until five days ago. They sit near Paris' bed, his dad staring off motionless and his aunt saying prayers while holding a sparkling, turquoise beaded rosary in her hand. She asks I call her Vanessa, reflecting the youthfulness of her wavy chestnut hair and deep blue eyes.
Vanessa drives Paris' dad home around 9 PM every night to sleep in a cushiony, warm bed. They keep trying to convince me to return home too. Yet I can't imagine trying to sleep in my bed, the bed Paris and I spent many nights in, knowing Paris is cooped up in a stuffy hospital and could wake up at any second. If he comes out of the coma, I want to be here the second his midnight black eyes flutter open.
When the nurses come in to check on Paris, they always flash a tired, recycled smile. An ornament of their empty sympathy, numb after seeing dozens of patients' loved ones fall apart in a dreary hospital room.
Recently, the nurses seem much more sympathetic than usual. They know how much the waiting hurts. Another minute ticks away, and Paris is still lying in bed unconscious. He looks at peace, as if he's dancing on the clouds in the midst of a whimsical dream, completely oblivious to the pain and fear around him. Every day Paris spends in a coma lowers the chance of him coming out of it.
I just want him to wake up. To open his eyes and realize that there's so much left to do in this world. This isn't how his story is supposed to end. He's only sixteen-years-old! He's never tasted alcohol. He's never been on a plane. He's never had a job. He's never owned an apartment, or a house. He's never had a pet. He's never seen how stunning the New York City skyline looks at the cusp of sunset, when the line between the orange daylight and indigo moonlight blend together to form a gleaming horizon, magnified by the sudden click of lights turning on all across skyscrapers and billboards and marquees.
Now, he may never experience any of those things.
How can I keep going when the only guy I've ever loved may be moments away from dying?
***
I know I shouldn't blame myself for Paris' accident. He was dealing with shit outside of my control. Even though I want to believe that, I can't stop thinking about what might've happened if I'd done things differently. I could've stayed with him; talked through what he was feeling.
Then maybe I wouldn't be desperately begging God or the Universe or whoever to wake him up.
I lost him once. I can't lose him again.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
