day 25 - chapter 22
22.
The next morning, I’m told I’ll have to wait till after lunchtime until I can go home - apparently my doctor isn’t in yet, and I can’t be cleared until he shows. I eat breakfast and move around the room, trying to make my legs stronger. The nurses have unhooked me from the IV drip because my vitals were good, so I’m back to normal in most senses of the word. The hospital I’m in is depressing - I was moved out of the Intensive Care Unit after my first night and taken to the General section, where the halls were full of moaning, crying and groaning people, most of them old.
They all wanted someone to talk to, so when I wasn’t busy or when there was nothing on TV, I would walk down the halls and chat to some of these people, enjoying the stories they told me of their lives out of this place. None of them could understand how someone so young as me could be in here, and I would always try to dodge the subject.
That morning, my last morning, I was sitting in my bed, fully dressed, when the door opened and PJ walked in. He looked grave, but otherwise just how I remembered him - his thin body, styled but not styled brown hair, glasses and casual but charming attire all in place. PJ shut the door behind him and came to sit on the visitor’s chair, looking at his hands. I just stared at him, not knowing what else to do - he hadn’t come to visit me since I had been awake, but the nurses had told me he had called to ask how I was. It was sweet, and it made me feel worse about everything that had happened.
As I watched him, I could feel my throat constrict and my eyes water - my mistakes were finally catching up to me. Seeing him here, so hurt, only managed to bring home just how much I had really screwed this entire thing up. He had been all I had ever wanted, all I had ever hoped to have in my life, and yet just as things were reaching near-perfect, my own selfish agenda ruined it all. I wanted to take it back, just so he would look at me and smile again, but those days seemed past. I wanted him to hold me like he had and tell me he was going to look out for me, but I knew he wouldn’t do that anymore.
Why was he here, then?
“You’re better, I see,” he whispered, still studying his hands. I could see his eyes were narrowed in concentration.
“I’m fine.”
What else could I say? It hurt so much to hear his bitter, sarcastic tone and realise it was directed at me. My tears were silent, thankfully, so I could wipe them away hastily.
“I heard they pumped your stomach.”
“I think so.”
Silence.
“You were asleep for about two days.”
Silence.
“I, uh, I came to see you when you were out,” he continued, raising his eyes but not meeting my own. “Wanted to make sure you were ok.”
“Uhm, thanks.”
He nodded and my room fell silent as we both thought about what we should say next. There were plenty of things I’d like to tell him, but none seemed appropriate or even approachable. Why was saying sorry the hardest word?
“I don’t know why you did it, Dylan,” he whispered, and I turned to look at him - he was finally looking back. “To see you lying in that alley...”
I closed my eyes and the images of that night flashed through my head - the trip, Holly’s bubbling, peeling skin, the giant cat, and PJ, the saviour. From my perspective, it wasn’t as bad, but as soon as I thought of how worried my friends must’ve been, the guilt stabs me like a thousand knives. What could I say that would ever make that better?
“PJ, you have to know...” I replied, looking back into his hurt eyes. “You have to know how sorry I am.”
I saw his mouth harden. “You’re only sorry you got caught, Dylan.”
My eyes gave me away, because they diverted from his quickly.
“You didn’t care that you broke your promise. You didn’t care about Holly or how she felt. You didn’t care about your family, and you certainly didn’t care about me.” His words grated at me flesh and then dripped acid onto the words - the stung and blistered, leaving scars. “So tell me: what do you care about?”
I couldn’t tell him - I couldn’t just say ‘Oliver’ and I couldn’t say ‘Home’, and I certainly couldn’t contradict his words, even though they were lies. I did care about Holly and my family, and above both those things, I cared about him. He wouldn’t listen nor would he understand, so I stayed silent, which made him angrier, but there was nothing I could do.
“Do you care about Oliver?”
My heart skipped to a stop and my wide, horrified eyes looked up at PJ, who looked back at me. “Oliver?” I repeated numbly.
“In the car when we were going to the hospital, you kept apologising to someone called Oliver. Who is he?”
This was the worst possible scenario I had ever imagined in my head - the point where my two lives intersected and I was found out. But I couldn’t love one more than the other, so how was I supposed to choose?
“Who is he, Dylan?” PJ demanded, and his eyes seemed to grow darker behind his glasses, like when the sun is eclipsed by the moon. It frightened me, but I knew I could never tell him. “Who is he?!”
My tears fell onto my cheeks and I wished he had never come. “I can’t tell you,” I cried, shrinking away from his approaching body. My heart felt like it was breaking with all the things that I couldn’t tell him, sinking beneath the surface of some rough sea - and if only he would reach out, it wouldn’t be so.
PJ sat on the side of my bed and looked at me, his face clearly torn between sadness and sympathy. “Just tell me you love me, and that’ll be enough,” he said, reaching out his hand to trace the side of my face softly. “I just need to hear it.”
I would have given him the world if he had’ve asked for it - so what was my heart in comparison? “I love you,” I whispered, tears still falling. “And I’m not lying. I do love you.”
I felt like I should have added ‘but I love Oliver too’ in there, but it didn’t come out. It couldn’t come out. My mind had somehow made them one person, so when I said I loved PJ, I was simultaneously saying I loved Oliver, and vice versa. It was wrong, but that’s just the way it had always been. It was the denial that allowed me to keep living in two worlds.
When my eyes met PJ’s, I could see it in his eyes that he knew there was a ‘but’ too, yet he never said anything. He smiled and leant down to kiss my lips softly, very softly - ghosting over them in a way that made my eyes flutter closed. And when he pressed his lips to mine, I could feel the unspoken topic of Home residing between us, the final barrier. Whether he was aware of it or not, I wasn’t sure, but he definitely knew that there was something blocking the final connection between us.
And when he pulled away from me, I knew that we were going to be ok - for the time being. PJ stayed with me until the doctor came and gave me a once over before announcing me ready to sign out. I walked out of my room with PJ beside me, thankful to be out of there finally. The nurses gave me a pen and I signed my name in a flourish and thanked them for everything, to which they smiled - they seemed content with my health and well being (despite cutting my hair off, they were positive I was going to be ok).
Several of the patients who I had talked to over the last few days came hobbling out of their rooms to bid me goodbye, and I felt saddened as I was free and healed while they were stuck here, most likely for the rest of their lives. Some called out from their rooms and waved, and I waved back, promising to come back some time and see them all - I hoped that I would. PJ took my hand and led me out, and I wondered what was going to be waiting for me at home.
The next morning, I’m told I’ll have to wait till after lunchtime until I can go home - apparently my doctor isn’t in yet, and I can’t be cleared until he shows. I eat breakfast and move around the room, trying to make my legs stronger. The nurses have unhooked me from the IV drip because my vitals were good, so I’m back to normal in most senses of the word. The hospital I’m in is depressing - I was moved out of the Intensive Care Unit after my first night and taken to the General section, where the halls were full of moaning, crying and groaning people, most of them old.
They all wanted someone to talk to, so when I wasn’t busy or when there was nothing on TV, I would walk down the halls and chat to some of these people, enjoying the stories they told me of their lives out of this place. None of them could understand how someone so young as me could be in here, and I would always try to dodge the subject.
That morning, my last morning, I was sitting in my bed, fully dressed, when the door opened and PJ walked in. He looked grave, but otherwise just how I remembered him - his thin body, styled but not styled brown hair, glasses and casual but charming attire all in place. PJ shut the door behind him and came to sit on the visitor’s chair, looking at his hands. I just stared at him, not knowing what else to do - he hadn’t come to visit me since I had been awake, but the nurses had told me he had called to ask how I was. It was sweet, and it made me feel worse about everything that had happened.
As I watched him, I could feel my throat constrict and my eyes water - my mistakes were finally catching up to me. Seeing him here, so hurt, only managed to bring home just how much I had really screwed this entire thing up. He had been all I had ever wanted, all I had ever hoped to have in my life, and yet just as things were reaching near-perfect, my own selfish agenda ruined it all. I wanted to take it back, just so he would look at me and smile again, but those days seemed past. I wanted him to hold me like he had and tell me he was going to look out for me, but I knew he wouldn’t do that anymore.
Why was he here, then?
“You’re better, I see,” he whispered, still studying his hands. I could see his eyes were narrowed in concentration.
“I’m fine.”
What else could I say? It hurt so much to hear his bitter, sarcastic tone and realise it was directed at me. My tears were silent, thankfully, so I could wipe them away hastily.
“I heard they pumped your stomach.”
“I think so.”
Silence.
“You were asleep for about two days.”
Silence.
“I, uh, I came to see you when you were out,” he continued, raising his eyes but not meeting my own. “Wanted to make sure you were ok.”
“Uhm, thanks.”
He nodded and my room fell silent as we both thought about what we should say next. There were plenty of things I’d like to tell him, but none seemed appropriate or even approachable. Why was saying sorry the hardest word?
“I don’t know why you did it, Dylan,” he whispered, and I turned to look at him - he was finally looking back. “To see you lying in that alley...”
I closed my eyes and the images of that night flashed through my head - the trip, Holly’s bubbling, peeling skin, the giant cat, and PJ, the saviour. From my perspective, it wasn’t as bad, but as soon as I thought of how worried my friends must’ve been, the guilt stabs me like a thousand knives. What could I say that would ever make that better?
“PJ, you have to know...” I replied, looking back into his hurt eyes. “You have to know how sorry I am.”
I saw his mouth harden. “You’re only sorry you got caught, Dylan.”
My eyes gave me away, because they diverted from his quickly.
“You didn’t care that you broke your promise. You didn’t care about Holly or how she felt. You didn’t care about your family, and you certainly didn’t care about me.” His words grated at me flesh and then dripped acid onto the words - the stung and blistered, leaving scars. “So tell me: what do you care about?”
I couldn’t tell him - I couldn’t just say ‘Oliver’ and I couldn’t say ‘Home’, and I certainly couldn’t contradict his words, even though they were lies. I did care about Holly and my family, and above both those things, I cared about him. He wouldn’t listen nor would he understand, so I stayed silent, which made him angrier, but there was nothing I could do.
“Do you care about Oliver?”
My heart skipped to a stop and my wide, horrified eyes looked up at PJ, who looked back at me. “Oliver?” I repeated numbly.
“In the car when we were going to the hospital, you kept apologising to someone called Oliver. Who is he?”
This was the worst possible scenario I had ever imagined in my head - the point where my two lives intersected and I was found out. But I couldn’t love one more than the other, so how was I supposed to choose?
“Who is he, Dylan?” PJ demanded, and his eyes seemed to grow darker behind his glasses, like when the sun is eclipsed by the moon. It frightened me, but I knew I could never tell him. “Who is he?!”
My tears fell onto my cheeks and I wished he had never come. “I can’t tell you,” I cried, shrinking away from his approaching body. My heart felt like it was breaking with all the things that I couldn’t tell him, sinking beneath the surface of some rough sea - and if only he would reach out, it wouldn’t be so.
PJ sat on the side of my bed and looked at me, his face clearly torn between sadness and sympathy. “Just tell me you love me, and that’ll be enough,” he said, reaching out his hand to trace the side of my face softly. “I just need to hear it.”
I would have given him the world if he had’ve asked for it - so what was my heart in comparison? “I love you,” I whispered, tears still falling. “And I’m not lying. I do love you.”
I felt like I should have added ‘but I love Oliver too’ in there, but it didn’t come out. It couldn’t come out. My mind had somehow made them one person, so when I said I loved PJ, I was simultaneously saying I loved Oliver, and vice versa. It was wrong, but that’s just the way it had always been. It was the denial that allowed me to keep living in two worlds.
When my eyes met PJ’s, I could see it in his eyes that he knew there was a ‘but’ too, yet he never said anything. He smiled and leant down to kiss my lips softly, very softly - ghosting over them in a way that made my eyes flutter closed. And when he pressed his lips to mine, I could feel the unspoken topic of Home residing between us, the final barrier. Whether he was aware of it or not, I wasn’t sure, but he definitely knew that there was something blocking the final connection between us.
And when he pulled away from me, I knew that we were going to be ok - for the time being. PJ stayed with me until the doctor came and gave me a once over before announcing me ready to sign out. I walked out of my room with PJ beside me, thankful to be out of there finally. The nurses gave me a pen and I signed my name in a flourish and thanked them for everything, to which they smiled - they seemed content with my health and well being (despite cutting my hair off, they were positive I was going to be ok).
Several of the patients who I had talked to over the last few days came hobbling out of their rooms to bid me goodbye, and I felt saddened as I was free and healed while they were stuck here, most likely for the rest of their lives. Some called out from their rooms and waved, and I waved back, promising to come back some time and see them all - I hoped that I would. PJ took my hand and led me out, and I wondered what was going to be waiting for me at home.