Sometimes We Takes Chances, Sometimes We Take Pills

ey Way. My wrists felt like they were on fire, every slight movement of my fingers made the cuts sting. The question he posed was a good one... why? I looked around the room. White. White walls, white sheets, white bandages around my wrists. The only thing breaking that was the red that had bled through my cuts that were wrapped tight; and the black clothing that offset Mikey’s pale complexion.

“I...” There was a bag of blood, almost gone of type O+ blood that was being leaked into me. The only sounds were the sounds of the heart monitor and the chaos that was going on in the intensive care unit. “What’s going to happen?” I asked, ignoring his question. “To me?”
Mikey turned his eyes away from me, wiping them with the back of his wrist.
“You’re going to have to go to a mental ward, Pete,” He answered. “Why?” He asked.
My throat locked, “I’m not crazy,” I choked out. “I’m not!” I insisted. Mikey just shook his head.
“That’s twice you’ve tried to kill yourself Pete,” he was staring at my wrists. “T-twice and... and I’ve saved you twice.” He pressed his fingertips to the bridge of his nose.

“Why didn’t you just let me?” That was a selfish question; because Mikey must’ve felt awful. The constant worry of whether I was alive or not; what I would do next. There were bags under his eyes. He wasn’t sleeping-- too many nightmares. He was up late with worry. He had no one to talk to, so he kept it all inside. Eventually it would come gushing out in one sudden attack of panic and rage. His fists clenched and he looked at me because I wasn’t answering.
“You’re worth so much more, Pete,” he said through clenched teeth. “You are.”

My eyes stayed focused on my feet that were buried under a white blanket. I shook my head. He was wrong, I wasn’t worth as much as he says I am. “I don’t feel like myself,” I admitted.
He gawked at me and stood up, furiously wiping at his eyes with his wrist. “I-”
“Wait,” I pleaded. I didn’t want to be in this hospital alone. It’s when he wasn’t around where I felt the most vulnerable. “Please.”
He turned around, “I’m gonna go get some coffee,” he said and left. He returned with a coffee for him, a ginger ale for me. It was poured in a plastic cup. No straw.

“Thanks,” I mumbled.
He nodded curtly, focusing on his coffee.
“When do I go into the hospital?” I asked softly, taking a sip of the ginger ale. It cooled my dry throat.
“Tomorrow,” he answered.
“Will you visit,” I asked.
“If you’d like,” he said with the same icy tone.
I nodded, “I would like that very much.”