The White Parade
VI. And on the Sixth Day…
VI. And on the Sixth Day…
(His heart gives out in the emergency room. Doctors rush to fulfill their Hippocratic Oath. Intubate him first; get him breathing. Get the air in his lungs. While they do that, get someone else to wheel out the defibrillator; get his heart working. Charge it up…
“CLEAR!”
The girl screams at the way his body jerks on the table. The heart monitor displays a sudden spike of green, stalling in its sound for a second before the spikes even out again, returning to the comfort of being a flat line.
“Shit. Again!”
“How high?”
“Next level.”
“Charging… CLEAR!”
She screams again. Again, there’s a spike on the monitor; again, it flattens out into an even line. They wonder why she’s still here. Silent messages get sent at light speed, even as their hands continue working. They single out a nurse—one with a natural sweetly coaxing disposition—and give her the commands. Without question, she accepts her new task.
“Ma’am, please—”
“No. No, I’m not—”
“Charging…”
“I’m not leaving—”
“CLEAR!”
His body jerks , and it looks unnatural. She doesn’t scream this time. Her eyes are fixed on what she can see, as doctors seem to surround him on all sides. The nurse recognizes the glassy look in her green eyes as the precursor to a hysterical breakdown. If he dies, the nurse assumes, the doctors will have to turn their focus of treatment onto her next. But for now, the girl is amazingly quiet, amazingly calm…because she’s still in shock.
“I’m not leaving him.”
“Ma’am, please…”
“No. I’m—I’m staying.”
The doctors ignore her, too focused on the flat line mocking them from the monitor. They don’t want to lose him, because most of them are still idealistic residents. They don’t want to lose him, because his death will be a blow to their egos.
“One more time.”
“How high?”
“High as we can take it.”
“Sweetie, the doctors are doing all they can—”
“I’m staying.”
“Are you sure? That high?”
They look at each other for the fraction of a second, wanting so much to be right but afraid that they might be wrong. Afraid that they might have already lost this fight.
“Go for it… Everything we can.”
“Honey, please…” The nurse takes the girl gently by the arm.
“That might not work. It might just be too much.”
The girl wrenches her arm way, green eyes growing fierce. “I said no.”
“It’ll work. Trust me—”
“You don’t need to see—”
“—it’ll work. Take it as high—”
“I’m not leaving him.”
“—as it’ll go.”
“If you say so… If you really think it’ll work.”
“It will. Trust me.”
“Ma’am…”
The nurse tries to take her arm again, and the girl pulls away just as hard as before. The fierceness increases several levels, bordering on angry. It doesn’t matter what anyone says; she’s not going to leave. But dammit if the nurse wasn’t going to keep trying!
“Charging…”
“The doctors are trying all they can to—”
“I’M STAYING!”
“CLEAR!”
One more jerk of his body on the table. One more sudden spike on the monitor. And then…heartbeats. A collective sigh escapes them all. The girl promptly sinks to the floor, fierce anger dissolving back into the glassy-eyed stare of shocked relief. Hard part’s over.
“Vital signs are stabilizing…”)
Six days pass. He drifts in and out, sometimes able to speak while other times barely able to make a sound. The doctors don’t like the looks of it. The say it was the stress of the show. They say it might have been the paints, or the turpentine… A lack of proper ventilation, they say. Something in the fumes… But that’s only what they say at first. It takes three days before someone will tell the truth—and I’m not surprised when it’s the resident who tried to sedate him last month.
(“He was trying a new drug. Something very experimental.”
“That doesn’t sound like him…”
“Believe me, I was surprised, too. I told him about the risks. The high risk for arrhythmias…the fatigue…”
“That explains why he was sleeping more…”
“Yes. But he insisted on trying it anyway. He just said… ‘I want this last chance. I want to see if this works.’ And it was working so well, that I thought we were in the clear. I truly thought it would work. I truly thought it was the one… We both did.”
“H-how long was he taking it?”)
A little over a month. Ean had been taking it all month—all month!—and he never said a word. He just kept things going. He kept focused on the show. He painted, he let me take pictures…and he enjoyed every minute of it. He talked to me about other things he wanted to do, ideas for other pieces…stories… He talked about…about getting his own apartment one day—about maybe actually listening to the doctors for once so that he could actually do that and more. He said…so many things. So many… But he never said a fucking word.
(“He never wanted you to know.”
“Why not?”
“He only said, ‘She means so much to me, Doc. She’ll never ever realize it. And I…I just don’t want to see her hurt, if it doesn’t work. I want to enjoy what I have. I don’t want to ruin it. It’s too…too perfect. If it works…’”)
All month… This month had been so good. So amazing. So…well…perfect. The best of month of our lives. Mine, anyway. But something tells me that it was his, too.
But now, six days…six days…
I haven’t left the room at all in these six days. Well…no. That’s not entirely true. Claire dragged me out and downstairs for sandwiches on the fourth day. She’s getting better. A month’s worth of treatment has brought back the girl I knew before. She’s happier; she writes more, draws more, plays with her video camera a lot more… Generally, she’s more alive than she has been in ages. The doctors think that they’ll let her out soon. She’ll be able to finish the rest of her treatment as an outpatient. It’s good news to hear. It’s what we’ve been dying to hear—if you’ll pardon the pun. And I’m…I’m happy. I really am. But now…now that the news is here…
It’s hard to be truly happy when I haven’t really slept in six days. It’s hard to really do much of anything when I’m too busy wondering when he’ll will wake up next and how long he’ll stick around this time. They took him off the breathing tube on the second day; he used one of his awakened periods to firmly emphasize that he was breathing quite well on his own by trying to take it out himself.
Six days…
(You get used to a lot after six days—like sleeping in a seated position. It’s very interesting, how quickly you adjust to having only the upper body slumped over in a position that’s far from conducive to a good night’s rest. You find you don’t miss the feeling of a mattress so much when the only reason you’re sleeping is to keep from having a psychotic episode.)
He fell unconscious again on the third day, after hoarsely reminding me that he was leaving the sketchbooks to me, and hasn’t woken up since. Heart monitors say that he’s alive; his breathing is relaxed and even. You’d almost think he’s just sleeping rather than probably inching closer and closer…to…
A sigh escapes where tears don’t.
I can’t think like that. It’s not a matter of whether or not I am; I just…can’t. For the life of me, I can’t imagine him dead. And maybe that’s a good thing. Or maybe that’s a bad thing. Maybe it’s the worst thing I can do to myself. Maybe it’ll just make it that much harder in the end. Who knows? I don’t want to.
His voice wakes me out of the closest thing I’ve had to sleep in days. A quiet rasp calling my name…and the gentle squeeze of my hand. That’s all it takes to make me sit up with a start, alert as ever. Weakly, Ean smiles, hazel eyes staring at me.
“What says the press?”
I’m too tired to laugh, but something forces itself out anyway. Reviews… Reviews of the show… He asked, the last time he came out of it, and there had been no news. And now, three days later? It was everywhere—with no mention of his collapse. (Note to self: Thank Mac for finagling that omission out of the press…no matter how many times he tells me not to.)
“It was a smash. Truly…one of a kind.”
The smile lingers a little while longer before he swallows, before he licks his dry lips.
“W-water…”
“Ice,” I answer, instinctively reaching for the bucket. “It’s all they’ll let me…”
The sound of water sloshing inside rather than the rattle of ice makes me sigh. It must have melted while I was asleep. And I could have sworn I just filled it up…several hours ago. He frowns, eyes trained on the ceiling.
“Water,” Ean says again in his hoarse voice. “I won’t…won’t choke.”
It takes some effort to help him sit up, to keep him from falling back onto the mattress. Ean holds on to me until he’s sure he can hold himself, and then he insists again for water. And of course, I… I shouldn’t be helping him to do this. I should be paying attention to doctor’s orders. I should be dumping the water and walking down the hall for more ice. I should be letting him rest…recover. But what else am I supposed to do—let him die of thirst?
Die of thirst… Now there’s an idea, isn’t it?
“You’re gonna get me in trouble…”
“I’ll handle them,” he says when he’s finished. “I’ll… They won’t say a thing.”
He meets my eyes with his, quietly dropping the empty cup to take my hands in his, interlacing our fingers. They feel cold again—as cold as they had been when I first met him. And his thumbs…
“I saw her again. On the table, wh-when they were… She came to me.”
As if I need to ask. From the look on his face, it doesn’t look like she brought good news this time. But maybe it’s just because he’s tired. Six days of trying to recover, six days of drifting in and out of the world…
“What did she say?”
“Sh-she’s glad that I kept my promise. But I…”
He looks up, and something in Ean’s eyes… It scares me. They say the terminally ill often know when their time is close. Is that what’s in his eyes now—the knowledge of his impending death?
“She’s coming for me. Tonight.”
“What? N-no…no. The doctors—th-they said—”
“They said I don’t have much time…and they’re right.”
“No…no, you’re…you’re gonna be fine.”
Denial is a lovely companion, you know. So sweet. So helpful. So well intentioned…
“This is just… It’s just a setback, Ean—”
“Allys…” He leans in until our foreheads touch, until his eyes are all I see. Cold, thin fingers brush against my cheek to catch falling tears. “Allys…”
“It’s just a setback. Your heart—y-your heart…”
“My heart is ready to give out. I-I’m…I’m ready to give out.” He makes some soft, small sound; his body resists a jolt, fighting a cough. His voice drops to whispers. “I’m—I’m ready to die. But I need you to be…okay? For me… I-I need…you…”
“I can’t…I can’t…”
I can’t be ready. I just can’t! How can he ask me…? He nods, trying to reassure me…trying to tell me that yes, I can, but…something in his eyes… A quiet fear. A quiet…reluctance. He isn’t ready yet. He doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t want to let go. Maybe he does, but something…some part of him… The important part, maybe. The part that was willing to take the drugs…to take the risk…to try to live… The part I know. The part that I…that I care about…so much…
“You have to try,” he says, fighting more jolts. “You have— You have to-to try…”
“I can’t… I can’t…”
“You have to try for me, okay? Allys, you have to try…”
“Ean, I can’t! I…I can’t…”
His lips press gently to my forehead, to my lips. There’s nothing romantic in the kiss; it’s just simple, bittersweet…something shared between close friends. A parting gift. A final goodbye.
The jolts he’s been trying to fight aren’t from coughs.
“Y-you have to try… I can’t— Oh, God, I wish I had more time. I begged her for more time, I did…”
“You’ll have more time. You’ll have more time! She’s not— Ean, she’s not real…!”
“Ta-take my sketchbooks—”
“Ean…”
“Bury me…with my scarf—”
“Ean, please—”
“Allys, just…just listen to me. Okay? Just…just listen. I don’t have…m-much time…”
It’s an effort for him to breathe, let alone talk. When did he get so winded? He used to talk for hours and never get tired. His eyes stay closed longer between each blink, and every time he opens them, more of the light is gone… He’s shaking…shaking…
“I have…a lot of regret, in my life. A lot. But you’re not one of them…understand? I wish I had more time. God, do I wish, but…but I wouldn’t change a fucking thing…you hear me? Not a fucking thing, Allys. Not…not a thing.”
I can’t say anything. I’m too busy crying, too busy trying to beg him to hold on, to stay…
“Shh…shh…stop that. Stop it, now…please… I h-hate…hate…seeing you cry… I hate seeing you hurt…” Talking is harder for him now; he locks his tearful gaze with mine again. “Sh-she’s coming…soon…”
“Don’t say that.” But I almost believe him now; it’s hard not to, seeing him believe it so strongly. “Please, don’t say that…”
“Smile, once…for me? Just once… I-I always… I always loved it when…when you smiled…”
But I can’t. I can’t smile. I can’t even…I can’t even fake it.
“Ean…Ean, please…”
“‘Because…I could not stop…for Death…h-he kindly…stopped…for me. The-the carriage…’”
Suddenly, Ean stops. He pulls away, a strange new glow in his hazel eyes. He isn’t looking at me—not anymore. He’s looking…through me. No…past me. Somewhere…behind me. His face grows somber; he swallows, clears his throat. His voice comes out in a soft, barely audible whisper.
“She’s here.”
He can’t mean—? He’s not serious. He’s delusional. That—that has to be it; he’s delusional. He’s out of his mind on some kind of weird medication. Someone must have fucked with his records and given him something he didn’t need. That…that has to be it. That has to be… It’s a plausible enough theory, right It could work… It could work. Except…
“Holy fuck!”
Except I see her, too.
“How-how did she get in here?”
She stands hidden in the shadows of the room, pale hands calmly folded in front of her Victorian rags. It’s strange…it’s almost like she’s…like she’s pulling all of the shadows in the room towards her. And then she moves forward, and the darkness begins to scatter back to the places it calls home, revealing her like a collection of falling veils. Her white hair sticks out in all directions, as though a product of violent fright; her gas mask conceals any sort of face she might have under there—but something says that her mask is her face. And you know…it’s almost funny… Here I am, standing face-to-face with something that should only exist on canvas—something that should only exist in dreams or in nightmares—and I can’t help but think of Morpheus…Morpheus and that goddamn helm of his…
But she’s no messenger of the Dream King, is she? No. She’s here on behalf of his sister.
“No…no… No. It’s not real… It’s not—not real. She’s not real…”
How can you describe fear? There’s no accurate way to explain what it’s like… A chilling of the insides, a gelling of the knees… A strong sense of dread that’s like a rip current pulling you farther out to sea the harder you try to fight it… The desire to scream, even though no sound comes out when you open your mouth… You can come close—you can even almost hit the nail right on its tiny fucking head—but in the end, the only way to really understand fear is to feel it firsthand—to really feel it until it threatens to drive you insane and back again. But I doubt anyone will ever experience this firsthand. Not like this. Not like—
“Go away! He did what you wanted!”
“Allys…Al…”
“He did what you asked! Isn’t that enough?!”
The harbinger stops. Her head tilts to the side, confused. I should stop shouting—stop shrieking, really. The nurses will hear me and think I’ve lost my mind.
“Leave him alone!”
But somehow, I don’t think they can hear me.
“He did what you wanted! He did…he did what you wanted…”
“Allys…Allys…” Cold, thin fingers fall to rest at my startled wrist, moving lower to curl around my hand. “It’s…it’s alright. D-don’t be afraid.”
“Afraid….afraid…”
“She’s not…she’s not here for you. Don’t be afraid…”
“No…no, she can’t—she can’t… You did what she…what she said… You did…”
“Allys, you have to let me—”
“No! I can’t…I can’t…”
Silently, she renews her advance. Her voice… He said he heard her voice. That it was beautiful. But what kind of beautiful voice could come out of that face? That mask… Ean’s hand tightens around mine. I back up, sink into the chair, weak, scared…
“He did…”
She can’t take him. She will take him.
“He did what you wanted…”
I want to stop her. I can’t stop her.
“What…what you asked…”
She’ll take him…
“…go away…”
She stops at his bedside, gas mask eyes fully on his face. Ean turns his eyes to her. The harbinger reaches out with a pale hand to stroke the hair back from his head. Almost instantly, he starts to shiver and whimper; his hand squeezes even tighter around mine. My fingers. I can’t feel…my…
His whimpers increase with his shivers. They become words.
“More…more ti…time. M-more time. Please…m-more…more…”
The harbinger shakes her head slowly—once, twice… She takes her hand away from his forehead, sliding it down…down…down…past the curve of his shoulder, past the crook of his elbow…stopping only to curl her slender fingers around his narrow wrist. He starts to shiver again as she turns his hand over until the palm faces up, tracing designs inside with her nails. Again, he starts to whimper. Again, he pleads with her for more time, more time, more time…
And then…and then…
She lets him go. With no words, no reason…she lets him go. He stops whimpering; he stops shivering. His hand relaxes its hold around mine; it’s a matter of pins and needles…pins and needles…pins…and fucking needles…
She’s rounding the bed. She’s coming for me.
“No…no… P-please…no… Not.. Leave her... Take...take me...”
“No, I… Shh… It’s going to be okay. Ev-everything is…is going to be okay…”
It’s a reversal of roles. Suddenly I’m not scared. I’m shaking…I’m shaking…God knows I’m shaking. The tears are rolling down my face. My hand holds as tightly to Ean’s as he had held mine. But I’m not scared. I’m not… I’m… She makes me feel…so calm… I swear to God, the closer she gets…the calmer I feel.
“Allys…”
“Ean, it’s okay…it’s all going to be okay…”
But being this close, seeing my reflection in her glass-like eyes…I should be losing my wits. I should be screaming myself hoarse. I should be…I should be kissing my sanity goodbye. I should be…I…I should be…should be…should…
Her fingers are like ice against my cheek. As her thumb catches a tear, I can feel it freeze at contact with her skin. It makes sense now, why he shivered…why he whimpered… Her fingers carry the touch of death. But at the same time…at the same time, I feel so…so…
“Allys…”
“Ean?”
Ean… His voice sounds so far away…so…soft. The world is darker, colder. The feeling spreads faster than I can fight it. I can feel myself letting go, even while something screams not to. Even as something argues against it, even as part of me recoils in mind-shattering horror…I shut my eyes and lean into her touch.
“M-mother…”
“Allys…”
I hear his voice again; it’s coming from farther off. I can…I can barely…hear it…
“Ean?”
“Allys…goodbye…”
Goodbye?
“…goodbye…”
No…not…
“Ean…”
Not goodbye. Not—not goodbye. Anything but goodbye. Anything…anything but that.
“…love…”
Wh-what? No…no… Come back. I can’t…I can’t hear you…say it again. Say it louder…
“Goodbye…”
Ean, wait, wait, WAIT!
“Ean—!”
The sound of the heart monitor wakes me up with a gasping, shaking start. Her hands…her fingers at my face… His voice…calling me. Calling for me. It had all been so… I could have sworn… I would have fucking sworn…!
The heart monitor. It’s flat lining. His heart…
His heart…
“My heart is ready to give out. I-I’m…I’m ready to give out. I’m—I’m ready to die. But I need you to be…okay? For me… I-I need…you…”
His eyes are open and fixed on a spot above the ceiling, shining in the lamplight like two hazel pools of liquid glass. The pupils are dilated; no pulse beats in his wrist…his skin is…cold…colder, I should say.
A dream…a terrible dream. That’s what it was, right? His way of saying goodbye… It… This…this sort of thing… It happens all the time…right?
Reluctantly, I let go of his hand. I close his eyes and press a kiss to his cold forehead. There’s no point in holding back tears. I mean…it’s not like he can tell me to stop crying now…can he?
The chair breaks my fall. I take his hand again. Cold as it is…stiff as it’s going to become… But I can’t let go. He might come back. He might… It might just be…
Wishful thinking.
Denial.
I know better.
“Goodbye… Goodbye… Goodbye…”
The panicked stampede of sneakers and work shoes thunders distantly in the hall, fueled by the scream of the heart monitor. The White Parade, coming to save the day… Bunch of fucking heroes they are…
I probably look like I need one of his sedatives—and I’m sure they won’t mind, since he won’t need them anymore—but that…that’s a useless thought. It’s useless in the same way that them running to get here is useless. They’ll be too late no matter how quickly they get here. They won’t bring him back no matter what they do.
He’s dead.
He’s gone.
He’s marching in a new parade.
(His heart gives out in the emergency room. Doctors rush to fulfill their Hippocratic Oath. Intubate him first; get him breathing. Get the air in his lungs. While they do that, get someone else to wheel out the defibrillator; get his heart working. Charge it up…
“CLEAR!”
The girl screams at the way his body jerks on the table. The heart monitor displays a sudden spike of green, stalling in its sound for a second before the spikes even out again, returning to the comfort of being a flat line.
“Shit. Again!”
“How high?”
“Next level.”
“Charging… CLEAR!”
She screams again. Again, there’s a spike on the monitor; again, it flattens out into an even line. They wonder why she’s still here. Silent messages get sent at light speed, even as their hands continue working. They single out a nurse—one with a natural sweetly coaxing disposition—and give her the commands. Without question, she accepts her new task.
“Ma’am, please—”
“No. No, I’m not—”
“Charging…”
“I’m not leaving—”
“CLEAR!”
His body jerks , and it looks unnatural. She doesn’t scream this time. Her eyes are fixed on what she can see, as doctors seem to surround him on all sides. The nurse recognizes the glassy look in her green eyes as the precursor to a hysterical breakdown. If he dies, the nurse assumes, the doctors will have to turn their focus of treatment onto her next. But for now, the girl is amazingly quiet, amazingly calm…because she’s still in shock.
“I’m not leaving him.”
“Ma’am, please…”
“No. I’m—I’m staying.”
The doctors ignore her, too focused on the flat line mocking them from the monitor. They don’t want to lose him, because most of them are still idealistic residents. They don’t want to lose him, because his death will be a blow to their egos.
“One more time.”
“How high?”
“High as we can take it.”
“Sweetie, the doctors are doing all they can—”
“I’m staying.”
“Are you sure? That high?”
They look at each other for the fraction of a second, wanting so much to be right but afraid that they might be wrong. Afraid that they might have already lost this fight.
“Go for it… Everything we can.”
“Honey, please…” The nurse takes the girl gently by the arm.
“That might not work. It might just be too much.”
The girl wrenches her arm way, green eyes growing fierce. “I said no.”
“It’ll work. Trust me—”
“You don’t need to see—”
“—it’ll work. Take it as high—”
“I’m not leaving him.”
“—as it’ll go.”
“If you say so… If you really think it’ll work.”
“It will. Trust me.”
“Ma’am…”
The nurse tries to take her arm again, and the girl pulls away just as hard as before. The fierceness increases several levels, bordering on angry. It doesn’t matter what anyone says; she’s not going to leave. But dammit if the nurse wasn’t going to keep trying!
“Charging…”
“The doctors are trying all they can to—”
“I’M STAYING!”
“CLEAR!”
One more jerk of his body on the table. One more sudden spike on the monitor. And then…heartbeats. A collective sigh escapes them all. The girl promptly sinks to the floor, fierce anger dissolving back into the glassy-eyed stare of shocked relief. Hard part’s over.
“Vital signs are stabilizing…”)
Six days pass. He drifts in and out, sometimes able to speak while other times barely able to make a sound. The doctors don’t like the looks of it. The say it was the stress of the show. They say it might have been the paints, or the turpentine… A lack of proper ventilation, they say. Something in the fumes… But that’s only what they say at first. It takes three days before someone will tell the truth—and I’m not surprised when it’s the resident who tried to sedate him last month.
(“He was trying a new drug. Something very experimental.”
“That doesn’t sound like him…”
“Believe me, I was surprised, too. I told him about the risks. The high risk for arrhythmias…the fatigue…”
“That explains why he was sleeping more…”
“Yes. But he insisted on trying it anyway. He just said… ‘I want this last chance. I want to see if this works.’ And it was working so well, that I thought we were in the clear. I truly thought it would work. I truly thought it was the one… We both did.”
“H-how long was he taking it?”)
A little over a month. Ean had been taking it all month—all month!—and he never said a word. He just kept things going. He kept focused on the show. He painted, he let me take pictures…and he enjoyed every minute of it. He talked to me about other things he wanted to do, ideas for other pieces…stories… He talked about…about getting his own apartment one day—about maybe actually listening to the doctors for once so that he could actually do that and more. He said…so many things. So many… But he never said a fucking word.
(“He never wanted you to know.”
“Why not?”
“He only said, ‘She means so much to me, Doc. She’ll never ever realize it. And I…I just don’t want to see her hurt, if it doesn’t work. I want to enjoy what I have. I don’t want to ruin it. It’s too…too perfect. If it works…’”)
All month… This month had been so good. So amazing. So…well…perfect. The best of month of our lives. Mine, anyway. But something tells me that it was his, too.
But now, six days…six days…
I haven’t left the room at all in these six days. Well…no. That’s not entirely true. Claire dragged me out and downstairs for sandwiches on the fourth day. She’s getting better. A month’s worth of treatment has brought back the girl I knew before. She’s happier; she writes more, draws more, plays with her video camera a lot more… Generally, she’s more alive than she has been in ages. The doctors think that they’ll let her out soon. She’ll be able to finish the rest of her treatment as an outpatient. It’s good news to hear. It’s what we’ve been dying to hear—if you’ll pardon the pun. And I’m…I’m happy. I really am. But now…now that the news is here…
It’s hard to be truly happy when I haven’t really slept in six days. It’s hard to really do much of anything when I’m too busy wondering when he’ll will wake up next and how long he’ll stick around this time. They took him off the breathing tube on the second day; he used one of his awakened periods to firmly emphasize that he was breathing quite well on his own by trying to take it out himself.
Six days…
(You get used to a lot after six days—like sleeping in a seated position. It’s very interesting, how quickly you adjust to having only the upper body slumped over in a position that’s far from conducive to a good night’s rest. You find you don’t miss the feeling of a mattress so much when the only reason you’re sleeping is to keep from having a psychotic episode.)
He fell unconscious again on the third day, after hoarsely reminding me that he was leaving the sketchbooks to me, and hasn’t woken up since. Heart monitors say that he’s alive; his breathing is relaxed and even. You’d almost think he’s just sleeping rather than probably inching closer and closer…to…
A sigh escapes where tears don’t.
I can’t think like that. It’s not a matter of whether or not I am; I just…can’t. For the life of me, I can’t imagine him dead. And maybe that’s a good thing. Or maybe that’s a bad thing. Maybe it’s the worst thing I can do to myself. Maybe it’ll just make it that much harder in the end. Who knows? I don’t want to.
His voice wakes me out of the closest thing I’ve had to sleep in days. A quiet rasp calling my name…and the gentle squeeze of my hand. That’s all it takes to make me sit up with a start, alert as ever. Weakly, Ean smiles, hazel eyes staring at me.
“What says the press?”
I’m too tired to laugh, but something forces itself out anyway. Reviews… Reviews of the show… He asked, the last time he came out of it, and there had been no news. And now, three days later? It was everywhere—with no mention of his collapse. (Note to self: Thank Mac for finagling that omission out of the press…no matter how many times he tells me not to.)
“It was a smash. Truly…one of a kind.”
The smile lingers a little while longer before he swallows, before he licks his dry lips.
“W-water…”
“Ice,” I answer, instinctively reaching for the bucket. “It’s all they’ll let me…”
The sound of water sloshing inside rather than the rattle of ice makes me sigh. It must have melted while I was asleep. And I could have sworn I just filled it up…several hours ago. He frowns, eyes trained on the ceiling.
“Water,” Ean says again in his hoarse voice. “I won’t…won’t choke.”
It takes some effort to help him sit up, to keep him from falling back onto the mattress. Ean holds on to me until he’s sure he can hold himself, and then he insists again for water. And of course, I… I shouldn’t be helping him to do this. I should be paying attention to doctor’s orders. I should be dumping the water and walking down the hall for more ice. I should be letting him rest…recover. But what else am I supposed to do—let him die of thirst?
Die of thirst… Now there’s an idea, isn’t it?
“You’re gonna get me in trouble…”
“I’ll handle them,” he says when he’s finished. “I’ll… They won’t say a thing.”
He meets my eyes with his, quietly dropping the empty cup to take my hands in his, interlacing our fingers. They feel cold again—as cold as they had been when I first met him. And his thumbs…
“I saw her again. On the table, wh-when they were… She came to me.”
As if I need to ask. From the look on his face, it doesn’t look like she brought good news this time. But maybe it’s just because he’s tired. Six days of trying to recover, six days of drifting in and out of the world…
“What did she say?”
“Sh-she’s glad that I kept my promise. But I…”
He looks up, and something in Ean’s eyes… It scares me. They say the terminally ill often know when their time is close. Is that what’s in his eyes now—the knowledge of his impending death?
“She’s coming for me. Tonight.”
“What? N-no…no. The doctors—th-they said—”
“They said I don’t have much time…and they’re right.”
“No…no, you’re…you’re gonna be fine.”
Denial is a lovely companion, you know. So sweet. So helpful. So well intentioned…
“This is just… It’s just a setback, Ean—”
“Allys…” He leans in until our foreheads touch, until his eyes are all I see. Cold, thin fingers brush against my cheek to catch falling tears. “Allys…”
“It’s just a setback. Your heart—y-your heart…”
“My heart is ready to give out. I-I’m…I’m ready to give out.” He makes some soft, small sound; his body resists a jolt, fighting a cough. His voice drops to whispers. “I’m—I’m ready to die. But I need you to be…okay? For me… I-I need…you…”
“I can’t…I can’t…”
I can’t be ready. I just can’t! How can he ask me…? He nods, trying to reassure me…trying to tell me that yes, I can, but…something in his eyes… A quiet fear. A quiet…reluctance. He isn’t ready yet. He doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t want to let go. Maybe he does, but something…some part of him… The important part, maybe. The part that was willing to take the drugs…to take the risk…to try to live… The part I know. The part that I…that I care about…so much…
“You have to try,” he says, fighting more jolts. “You have— You have to-to try…”
“I can’t… I can’t…”
“You have to try for me, okay? Allys, you have to try…”
“Ean, I can’t! I…I can’t…”
His lips press gently to my forehead, to my lips. There’s nothing romantic in the kiss; it’s just simple, bittersweet…something shared between close friends. A parting gift. A final goodbye.
The jolts he’s been trying to fight aren’t from coughs.
“Y-you have to try… I can’t— Oh, God, I wish I had more time. I begged her for more time, I did…”
“You’ll have more time. You’ll have more time! She’s not— Ean, she’s not real…!”
“Ta-take my sketchbooks—”
“Ean…”
“Bury me…with my scarf—”
“Ean, please—”
“Allys, just…just listen to me. Okay? Just…just listen. I don’t have…m-much time…”
It’s an effort for him to breathe, let alone talk. When did he get so winded? He used to talk for hours and never get tired. His eyes stay closed longer between each blink, and every time he opens them, more of the light is gone… He’s shaking…shaking…
“I have…a lot of regret, in my life. A lot. But you’re not one of them…understand? I wish I had more time. God, do I wish, but…but I wouldn’t change a fucking thing…you hear me? Not a fucking thing, Allys. Not…not a thing.”
I can’t say anything. I’m too busy crying, too busy trying to beg him to hold on, to stay…
“Shh…shh…stop that. Stop it, now…please… I h-hate…hate…seeing you cry… I hate seeing you hurt…” Talking is harder for him now; he locks his tearful gaze with mine again. “Sh-she’s coming…soon…”
“Don’t say that.” But I almost believe him now; it’s hard not to, seeing him believe it so strongly. “Please, don’t say that…”
“Smile, once…for me? Just once… I-I always… I always loved it when…when you smiled…”
But I can’t. I can’t smile. I can’t even…I can’t even fake it.
“Ean…Ean, please…”
“‘Because…I could not stop…for Death…h-he kindly…stopped…for me. The-the carriage…’”
Suddenly, Ean stops. He pulls away, a strange new glow in his hazel eyes. He isn’t looking at me—not anymore. He’s looking…through me. No…past me. Somewhere…behind me. His face grows somber; he swallows, clears his throat. His voice comes out in a soft, barely audible whisper.
“She’s here.”
He can’t mean—? He’s not serious. He’s delusional. That—that has to be it; he’s delusional. He’s out of his mind on some kind of weird medication. Someone must have fucked with his records and given him something he didn’t need. That…that has to be it. That has to be… It’s a plausible enough theory, right It could work… It could work. Except…
“Holy fuck!”
Except I see her, too.
“How-how did she get in here?”
She stands hidden in the shadows of the room, pale hands calmly folded in front of her Victorian rags. It’s strange…it’s almost like she’s…like she’s pulling all of the shadows in the room towards her. And then she moves forward, and the darkness begins to scatter back to the places it calls home, revealing her like a collection of falling veils. Her white hair sticks out in all directions, as though a product of violent fright; her gas mask conceals any sort of face she might have under there—but something says that her mask is her face. And you know…it’s almost funny… Here I am, standing face-to-face with something that should only exist on canvas—something that should only exist in dreams or in nightmares—and I can’t help but think of Morpheus…Morpheus and that goddamn helm of his…
But she’s no messenger of the Dream King, is she? No. She’s here on behalf of his sister.
“No…no… No. It’s not real… It’s not—not real. She’s not real…”
How can you describe fear? There’s no accurate way to explain what it’s like… A chilling of the insides, a gelling of the knees… A strong sense of dread that’s like a rip current pulling you farther out to sea the harder you try to fight it… The desire to scream, even though no sound comes out when you open your mouth… You can come close—you can even almost hit the nail right on its tiny fucking head—but in the end, the only way to really understand fear is to feel it firsthand—to really feel it until it threatens to drive you insane and back again. But I doubt anyone will ever experience this firsthand. Not like this. Not like—
“Go away! He did what you wanted!”
“Allys…Al…”
“He did what you asked! Isn’t that enough?!”
The harbinger stops. Her head tilts to the side, confused. I should stop shouting—stop shrieking, really. The nurses will hear me and think I’ve lost my mind.
“Leave him alone!”
But somehow, I don’t think they can hear me.
“He did what you wanted! He did…he did what you wanted…”
“Allys…Allys…” Cold, thin fingers fall to rest at my startled wrist, moving lower to curl around my hand. “It’s…it’s alright. D-don’t be afraid.”
“Afraid….afraid…”
“She’s not…she’s not here for you. Don’t be afraid…”
“No…no, she can’t—she can’t… You did what she…what she said… You did…”
“Allys, you have to let me—”
“No! I can’t…I can’t…”
Silently, she renews her advance. Her voice… He said he heard her voice. That it was beautiful. But what kind of beautiful voice could come out of that face? That mask… Ean’s hand tightens around mine. I back up, sink into the chair, weak, scared…
“He did…”
She can’t take him. She will take him.
“He did what you wanted…”
I want to stop her. I can’t stop her.
“What…what you asked…”
She’ll take him…
“…go away…”
She stops at his bedside, gas mask eyes fully on his face. Ean turns his eyes to her. The harbinger reaches out with a pale hand to stroke the hair back from his head. Almost instantly, he starts to shiver and whimper; his hand squeezes even tighter around mine. My fingers. I can’t feel…my…
His whimpers increase with his shivers. They become words.
“More…more ti…time. M-more time. Please…m-more…more…”
The harbinger shakes her head slowly—once, twice… She takes her hand away from his forehead, sliding it down…down…down…past the curve of his shoulder, past the crook of his elbow…stopping only to curl her slender fingers around his narrow wrist. He starts to shiver again as she turns his hand over until the palm faces up, tracing designs inside with her nails. Again, he starts to whimper. Again, he pleads with her for more time, more time, more time…
And then…and then…
She lets him go. With no words, no reason…she lets him go. He stops whimpering; he stops shivering. His hand relaxes its hold around mine; it’s a matter of pins and needles…pins and needles…pins…and fucking needles…
She’s rounding the bed. She’s coming for me.
“No…no… P-please…no… Not.. Leave her... Take...take me...”
“No, I… Shh… It’s going to be okay. Ev-everything is…is going to be okay…”
It’s a reversal of roles. Suddenly I’m not scared. I’m shaking…I’m shaking…God knows I’m shaking. The tears are rolling down my face. My hand holds as tightly to Ean’s as he had held mine. But I’m not scared. I’m not… I’m… She makes me feel…so calm… I swear to God, the closer she gets…the calmer I feel.
“Allys…”
“Ean, it’s okay…it’s all going to be okay…”
But being this close, seeing my reflection in her glass-like eyes…I should be losing my wits. I should be screaming myself hoarse. I should be…I should be kissing my sanity goodbye. I should be…I…I should be…should be…should…
Her fingers are like ice against my cheek. As her thumb catches a tear, I can feel it freeze at contact with her skin. It makes sense now, why he shivered…why he whimpered… Her fingers carry the touch of death. But at the same time…at the same time, I feel so…so…
“Allys…”
“Ean?”
Ean… His voice sounds so far away…so…soft. The world is darker, colder. The feeling spreads faster than I can fight it. I can feel myself letting go, even while something screams not to. Even as something argues against it, even as part of me recoils in mind-shattering horror…I shut my eyes and lean into her touch.
“M-mother…”
“Allys…”
I hear his voice again; it’s coming from farther off. I can…I can barely…hear it…
“Ean?”
“Allys…goodbye…”
Goodbye?
“…goodbye…”
No…not…
“Ean…”
Not goodbye. Not—not goodbye. Anything but goodbye. Anything…anything but that.
“…love…”
Wh-what? No…no… Come back. I can’t…I can’t hear you…say it again. Say it louder…
“Goodbye…”
Ean, wait, wait, WAIT!
“Ean—!”
The sound of the heart monitor wakes me up with a gasping, shaking start. Her hands…her fingers at my face… His voice…calling me. Calling for me. It had all been so… I could have sworn… I would have fucking sworn…!
The heart monitor. It’s flat lining. His heart…
His heart…
“My heart is ready to give out. I-I’m…I’m ready to give out. I’m—I’m ready to die. But I need you to be…okay? For me… I-I need…you…”
His eyes are open and fixed on a spot above the ceiling, shining in the lamplight like two hazel pools of liquid glass. The pupils are dilated; no pulse beats in his wrist…his skin is…cold…colder, I should say.
A dream…a terrible dream. That’s what it was, right? His way of saying goodbye… It… This…this sort of thing… It happens all the time…right?
Reluctantly, I let go of his hand. I close his eyes and press a kiss to his cold forehead. There’s no point in holding back tears. I mean…it’s not like he can tell me to stop crying now…can he?
The chair breaks my fall. I take his hand again. Cold as it is…stiff as it’s going to become… But I can’t let go. He might come back. He might… It might just be…
Wishful thinking.
Denial.
I know better.
“Goodbye… Goodbye… Goodbye…”
The panicked stampede of sneakers and work shoes thunders distantly in the hall, fueled by the scream of the heart monitor. The White Parade, coming to save the day… Bunch of fucking heroes they are…
I probably look like I need one of his sedatives—and I’m sure they won’t mind, since he won’t need them anymore—but that…that’s a useless thought. It’s useless in the same way that them running to get here is useless. They’ll be too late no matter how quickly they get here. They won’t bring him back no matter what they do.
He’s dead.
He’s gone.
He’s marching in a new parade.