“Why are you still here?” I ask from my white adjustable bed. The gloomy darkness of this room is starting to get to me after only a few days. Or maybe that’s the meds.
“I told you,” He answers from across the small room, “I’m not leaving until they make me.”
“No,” I correct myself, “I mean why are you here, with me. Why don’t you walk away while you still can.”
He lowers his dark, recently buzzed, hair into his hands and rubs his head. It’s freezing in here, yet he along with his multiple tattoos is just sitting there, no sweatshirt, no blanket. Only his usual dark shirt.
“How many times do we need to go through this Jade.” He says exasperated. I know why he’s frustrated. I understand why. Still I refuse to stop asking.
“As many times as it takes for these facts to get into that thick skull of yours,” I say hastily. My head is no longer foggy, no ringing in my ears. That’s how I know the medication is wearing off, and also how I know it will be pumped back into me soon.
“There are no facts. Nothing is certain.” He sets his hands behind his head and leans back in the chair. Hospital chairs aren’t comfortable, despite what he says. The dark bags under his already pale eyes are starting to prove me right.
“That’s not true Jackson,” I say, tired of this run around, “It’s not. And you know it.”
He stays quiet for a while as if he’s going to sleep. Yeah, as if. He’s been here constantly two days straight and I’m convinced I could count the amount of hours he’s slept on one hand. Despite the words racing around in my head I also don’t say anything. Instead I just look. I look at his closed eye lids, hiding his soul from me. I look at the stubble coming in on his chin, and as his nose as it moves from his slow breathing. I decided, in light of recent events, to look at his as much as I possibly can. Considering I may not be able to do it for much longer.
I stay quiet until the heart monitor next me starts echoing between my ears, driving me crazy. He looks…calm. And I hate it.
“Say something.” My raspy voice requests.
“I love you.” He says immediately.
My blood turns to embers. He’s denying what’s right in front of him. He’s been denying it from the beginning. He doesn’t deserve this. God, he deserves so much more.
“You want real facts Jackson?” I ask rhetorically, “Well here. These blond locks you love so much?” I grab a chuck of my wavy hair, “Gone. Our traditional Friday night hang outs? Over. Senior class trip to Florida next month? Not a chance,” I suck in a breath and continue, “Fishing on your new boat this summer? Not gonna happen. College in the fall?” He staring intently at me now, I almost break down, “That’s a joke now!”
“Stop,” I gets up quickly and sits down beside me, moving the I.V. out of the way, “Stop it. We don’t know any of that.”
For the first time in his life he’s reaching for the stars, searching for an unattainable miracle. It’s coming. Why can’t he see that. Denial is for the weak. He is not weak. I refuse to be any longer.
“I do,” I plead for him to finally understand, “You may not know, but I do.”
The tears sting the back of my eyes but they will not spill over. I think the words for the millionth time, and say them out loud for the first, to the one person I wish I could lie to.
“I have leukemia. Stage 4,” I say numbly and swallow to avoid chocking on my own saliva, “And I’m going to die. I am going to die Jackson.”
I slide my fingers around his wrist and immediately feel the speed of his blood racing through his veins. The machine next to me start beating faster. I pull his face to mine, taking in as much of his scent as possible. He kisses my chin, my cheek, before finally pulling my lips into his. This is a better high than any pain meds they could ever give me.
“I want to help,” he looks away as if trying to get away from himself, “I wish I could fix it.”
I’ve known Jackson a long time. We’ve been together a long time. Not once in his entire life have I seen him cry. Not once, until now.
The tears steam down his cheeks, matching the rate of his heart. They drip off his chin and onto the top of my hand. Like pain, they demand to be noticed.
“Come here,” I say, scooting over and holding the chords attacked to my finger and arm up. He slides closer and carefully adjusts himself next to me. Immediately I curl into him, resting a leg over his and balling a chuck of his shirt into my fist. “Hold me,” I whisper, “That will help.”
One of the ten machines next to me lets out a low pitched beep and I feel the cool venom make its way from my I.V. and into my veins. Soon I won’t feel a single thing.
“It will help,” I assure him, feeling light and dense at the same time.
“Sure,” He whispers next to me, kissing the top of my head, “For now.”
And just like that I’m gone.