Endlessly -9-
Half past nine. Nine thirty, twenty-eight seconds. Nine forty. Nine fifty-nine. Ten thirty. It's all the same. They're just numbers, and they mean nothing. Nothing, because when the hand moves to a new number with a tick, I won't get a reply. There's no definite hour, or minute, or second.The clock won't stop and say, "it's eleven fifteen with eighteen seconds," and cease this thumping of blood in my brain and bring me relief. It's all a matter of luck, and whether I should have to wait ten minutes or three hours is nothing I have in my power.
And the time is irrelevant, because ten minutes and three hours both feel like an eternity.
Bandages and nurses carrying bags of blood. Syringes and hurried footsteps. Towels, scissors. Phenol. Painkillers and shouting. Four glorious hours of this, sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair with a seat that left much to be desired. Standing up once in a while, looking into the room from afar, putting together the pieces to infer what torture he was being subjected to. Much obliged to stare in awe as they tried to pin him down, and too shocked to move as the blood stained the whiteness of it all.
And even if I hadn't, it would have been to no avail. He wouldn't heed to my pleas and their work would be prolonged and perhaps even jeopardised.
". . .are you a family member?"
I stared at her, looking intently at how her thumb held her grip on the clipboard she was holding. She looked at me with a very peculiar expression, both of interest and pity. . .and perhaps even a bit of annoyance. Annoyance because she didn't believe I had the right to claim any of him and yet found herself forced to ask. I looked into her eyes for a moment and wondered and asked whether this lie was really lying . .
So I looked at my hands and saw the tiny vermillion specks, and remembered the pain. And the petal was still there, it was stuck to the moist flesh of my palm. She was just very discoloured, curling slightly in a pale pink with browned edges, where she had died a bit. Had she been left out of my hand, she would be dry. And she was dying, of course, but she was pliable and soft, like a healthy one. My sweat, my warmth, had allowed her to keep a bit of her alive.
"Yes, he's my. . .brother."
She stifled her surprise, nevertheless slightly protruding her cold, dark blue eyes. I was prepared to tell her anything, to give her an endless array of excuses and stories. If ever I was good at anything, it was that. Lying, and lying on spot. I was even able to convince myself of my own lies. That's what got me into this situation to begin with.
She led me back to the room where he layed and closed the door behind me. I turned to him, his head was turned the other way. I looked at his hair and began to extend my arm to carress him. And I tried to, but my hand was shaking and retracting involuntarily. I had to use my other hand just to keep my arm stretched out, until it began to hurt. So I sat down on the floor, and reached out for his hand, and held it to my cheek.
I wanted to cry, but my eyes were so dry and swollen that instead I was greated by a pain as my they attempted to tear. Startled by the abrupt movement of his head toward me, I let go of his hand. His eyes, barely open, so clear and colourless, like the rest of his face. I stifled a gasp, and my bottom lip shook in horror as I digested the image. I'd never seen him so. . .lifeless.
"Dom, tell me: why are you here?"
I felt my brow crease sharply as it quivered. It was such a seemingly simple question, but the answer was so complex. What did he want to hear? What was my real intention? Was it guilt or affection or fear. . .
I lowered my eyes and then my head, passing the tips of my thumbs against each other slowly.
"I. . .I don't know."
His eyes burned into me. He was waiting for an answer. I searched wildly inside my head for a suitable reply, but the mere awarness of it made the task impossible and useless.
"I guess I was worried about you."
"But why are you worried about me? Is it guilt? Do you feel that you're partially responsible for this?"
I looked up at him again.
"Yes-I mean, yes, somewhat. You did say that you needed to be with me and I. . .I pulled you away from me. Christ, after the beach, I should have known better. Yes! This is all my fucking fault. . .yes, yes it is. . ."
I crimped an edge of the sheet in my fists as tears finally rolled down my cheeks.
"Then, please. . .leave. I'd hate to tie you down to me out of guilt. I don't know why I always have hope that one day you'll feel the same. I don't understand why I haven't faded away already. . .it's not as though I've tried very hard to hold on to this world. Sometimes, when I go to sleep, I wish next morning I won't be breathing anymore. And I have the same dream every night, where we're at the beach at night, and cold wind blows over us. I close my eyes and all I can hear is your voice as you hold me tightly against your chest and utter the same words over and over. The only words I've ever wanted to hear from you, instead of your endless pity.
And I understand that this, this immensely fervent emotion I feel, wouldn't exist inside me had I not been so vain. That I'm a stranger to you, even now. But why. . .why is it so hard to love someone whom you've not loved from the beginning? I've done everything I've could. I've been caring and dedicated, and when that didn't work, I left you. So what is it? Why can't I be loved?"
"But Bells. . .I do."
"You do what?"
"I-I. . ."
I stopped myself, unable to utter the words.
"For all your elaborate wordiness and romantic writings are worth right now. . .you can't even say it. You don't love me. And you never will. So leave."
"No. I'm not leaving you again. Look at what happened. I can't let you die like-"
"That's all you care about. You just don't want to live with the weight of a dead man on your conscience. Don't you understand that I don't want to live off your pity? This is torture for both of us. If you can't love me, then I don't want to live at all."
He stood up from his bed, staring at me. I froze, as I felt my blood drain from my face. What if he intended to keep his word?
"Very well. Then I shall leave."
"Matthew. . .!"