Goodbye
Goodbye
His head is throbbing as he reaches up and rubs his eyes. They are swollen; his whole face is swollen and he thinks he must look terrible. Such a disappointment to all the reporters that were waiting for him in front of the hospital. He barely found the strength to fight his way inside.
“Sir?”
The nurse is smiling sympathetically, and he instantly hates her for that. He hates a lot of things recently, things that can smile, walk, talk, breath, live when...
He doesn't want to think of it, but the truth is, he can't stop. When he wakes up, the thought is there. When he brushes his teeth, when he fails to force himself to eat, to move and function, it's there. When he goes to bed, it's there. He dreams about it, too.
He follows the nurse to the room; it smells sickly of disinfection and illness. He hates the smell, too. Another thing on the list.
“Morning, darling,” the motionless figure on the bed says; he almost laughs. He hates the nicknames, any kinds of nicknames, but darling was obviously used for a different reason.
“Stop,” he groans. “It's not funny.”
“You smiled,” the person points out and he really, really hates him right now. He continues glaring as he sits on the chair next to the bed.
“You came... will you finish shooting some other day?”
He bites his lip, closing his eyes. “I couldn't refuse,” he whispers, feeling the itching in the back of his eyes. How come there are any liquids left in him anymore? He can't recall eating or drinking much recently, living on cigarettes. The silences feels suffocating, as he continues, ignoring the question he got: “You shouldn't ask me to do this.”
“I wanted to say goodbye.”
He snaps. “There is no fucking need for a fucking goodbye!” He is cursing because then everything feels more real. Grimacing, he tries to keep the tears back. “There is no need for goodbye, you will get better....” This time, it's barely a whisper.
“I won't get better.” That is a whisper as well, but it's solid and sounds terrifyingly true. “You know it, darling-boy,” the person adds and stops the weak protests and whispers of no.
“I hate you. How can you be so fucking calm about this?” He is crying by now, again, being pulled in a weak embrace that makes the other wince in pain. “You're dying and–” He is choking on the word.
“I want you to promise me something. I want you to promise me you will continue with your life when I'm gone.”
And that's it, that's it. He pulls back. “Stop with your cliché fairy tale babble! Stop telling me you need to say goodbye! Stop wanting me to live my fucking life! You want clichés – well, you are my fucking life, how can I– How can I live it without you?” He is screaming hysterically, and this is not how it is supposed to be. Nothing is how it is supposed to be.
He is not supposed to be crying in a hospital room with his fiancé who is dying of cancer, another stupid cliché. He is not supposed to watch his love fade before his eyes. He is not supposed to be here today, to say goodbye. He is not...
“Please, promise it to me.”
He tries to calm down, tears making his vision blurry. He doesn't even know why he says it. “I promise.”
His fiancé dies that night.
“Sir?”
The nurse is smiling sympathetically, and he instantly hates her for that. He hates a lot of things recently, things that can smile, walk, talk, breath, live when...
He doesn't want to think of it, but the truth is, he can't stop. When he wakes up, the thought is there. When he brushes his teeth, when he fails to force himself to eat, to move and function, it's there. When he goes to bed, it's there. He dreams about it, too.
He follows the nurse to the room; it smells sickly of disinfection and illness. He hates the smell, too. Another thing on the list.
“Morning, darling,” the motionless figure on the bed says; he almost laughs. He hates the nicknames, any kinds of nicknames, but darling was obviously used for a different reason.
“Stop,” he groans. “It's not funny.”
“You smiled,” the person points out and he really, really hates him right now. He continues glaring as he sits on the chair next to the bed.
“You came... will you finish shooting some other day?”
He bites his lip, closing his eyes. “I couldn't refuse,” he whispers, feeling the itching in the back of his eyes. How come there are any liquids left in him anymore? He can't recall eating or drinking much recently, living on cigarettes. The silences feels suffocating, as he continues, ignoring the question he got: “You shouldn't ask me to do this.”
“I wanted to say goodbye.”
He snaps. “There is no fucking need for a fucking goodbye!” He is cursing because then everything feels more real. Grimacing, he tries to keep the tears back. “There is no need for goodbye, you will get better....” This time, it's barely a whisper.
“I won't get better.” That is a whisper as well, but it's solid and sounds terrifyingly true. “You know it, darling-boy,” the person adds and stops the weak protests and whispers of no.
“I hate you. How can you be so fucking calm about this?” He is crying by now, again, being pulled in a weak embrace that makes the other wince in pain. “You're dying and–” He is choking on the word.
“I want you to promise me something. I want you to promise me you will continue with your life when I'm gone.”
And that's it, that's it. He pulls back. “Stop with your cliché fairy tale babble! Stop telling me you need to say goodbye! Stop wanting me to live my fucking life! You want clichés – well, you are my fucking life, how can I– How can I live it without you?” He is screaming hysterically, and this is not how it is supposed to be. Nothing is how it is supposed to be.
He is not supposed to be crying in a hospital room with his fiancé who is dying of cancer, another stupid cliché. He is not supposed to watch his love fade before his eyes. He is not supposed to be here today, to say goodbye. He is not...
“Please, promise it to me.”
He tries to calm down, tears making his vision blurry. He doesn't even know why he says it. “I promise.”
His fiancé dies that night.