𝔍𝔞𝔯𝔞'𝔰 𝔏𝔬𝔤𝔟𝔬𝔬𝔨

#15

I have died every day waiting for you
Darling, don't be afraid
I have loved you for a thousand years
I'll love you for a thousand more

- Christina Perri, "A Thousand Years" 🎵

*

Ashish

I'm unable to determine what to feel right now. It's a commixture of emotions, really. I don't know if I should be slamming my skull into a concrete pile in absolute guilt for the very fact that Jara is in the hospital because I couldn't come get him as he asked or if I should be flaring past boiling point at the thought of whoever it is that mass-produced that photo. Either way, if Jara lives through this, I promise I'll never let him experience the loneliness he felt today even again.

I'm in the foyer, my legs pulsating in increasing panic. I'm not the godsend considerate enough to bring Jara here; it was some guy whom I nearly drub to death. I'm here because my number is dialed last on Jara's mobile right before a private car smashed into him. I still remember fragments of his last text. He needed me. My best friend needed me and I was too absorbed with everything to run to his assistance. What's worse, I was with Maxine. I feel I have quite the explanation to do, but Jara just has to wake up first.

I feel a quivering hand place itself on my shoulder and I look up: Reese Buckler. She's finally here. I scan her as I observe the plain of streaking tears that her face has become. My eyes are also glossy and I feel myself about to squall so loudly the glass windows will shatter of their own accord.

"How is he?" Her voice is tearful and an octave lower than usual. My heart is on the verge of shattering as I look upon the once sunny Tennessee girl now looking as morose as doomsday itself. I don't even answer her; I only point to a room, the door of which is shut but furnished with a doubled looking glass.

"He-He's in the ICU?"

As I nod in reply, she starts to release fell, quaking, throaty cries. "He's too young, Lord," I hear her lament. "Please don't take him just yet. Please. You know how much he loves You. Please don't—" She's unable to finish as her tears engulf her words. She sits next to me and I lock my arms around her, feeling her heated tears glide down my chest. My head is above her hair and I'm crying into it. We disentangle ourselves and she reaches into her purse and pulls out tissues. She offers me one and I decline gracefully. I've got my bandana with me.

"I've read this," I disclose to her, my fingers trailing the leathery cover of his logbook. "I had to Google it just to decode it. And now that I have, I just feel—"

"He wrote juicy stuff, didn't he?" Reese is still joyless and croaking, but she pretends a smile.

"He wrote about how much he cherished us both, how we were his siblings. He wrote down every single time his parents hit him, which was very often. He also wrote things he wished he could say to us in person, and I honestly hope he gets the chance to do that."

"What if this was them?" Reese asks, suddenly lifting her gaze from the floor to the ICU door. "What if it was his parents?"

"You think they'd put him in this position?" I respond, trying to be level-headed in the matter; but a part of me believes without reserve that this was their doing, either directly or indirectly.

"Don't be naive," Reese cautions me. "You really think they'd outgrown their corporal punishment ideas? They were probably going to hurt Jara and he fled and got knocked down in the process—"