Highway 1

The road is twisting and turning and Frank can feel the bile rising up in his throat, and it takes everything in him to shove it back from whence it came. Gerard gives his hand a supportive squeeze; Frank would smile back, but he’s afraid that if his mouth so much as twitches, today’s breakfast is going to come whizzing up within seconds, and the car will hold a lovely, lasting scent of eggs and stomach acid.

Ray is driving and he’s okay with that. Ray is an excellent driver. He trusts Ray wholeheartedly; its the road he doesn’t trust. Ray’s not driving fast, one can’t on this road, but Frank’s stomach churns with every drop and his teeth clench with more force on each curve. Ray, being a caring friend, is stoping every ten or fifteen minutes allowing Frank to walk around for a bit so the queasiness can comfortably dissipate, only to return again moments later.

Frank wishes the queasiness away. He desperately wants to admire the beauty passing right beside him, but he physically can’t. His stomach just isn’t letting him, and the thumping in his head roars in protest if his eyes gander at anything except the back of Ray’s head.

His eyes are closed when it happens. He’s breathing the sea air, the sharp taste of salt hitting his throat with each deep inhale; the wind is whipping at his face. He hears it first. The sound of screeching tires rips at his eyes. They shoot open as a scream erupts from Gerard. Frank can see Ray’s knuckles whiten as he grips the steering wheel. The car jerks right and a red blur flies past them in a jolt of scarily harried speed. Frank feels Gerard’s shaky arms encircle him, and Frank kisses him in furious relief. And they’re whispering “I love you”’s and “You okay?”’s all in fear and shock, and pure happiness that they’re all right and

BAM.

The car is soaring into the clouds and it’s a lovely, freeing feeling, and they’re flying faster than they thought possible, but as quickly as it began, it ends. Suddenly, they’re falling, being pulled downward, and nothing, absolutely nothing is there to pull them up. They’re plummeting down, down, down, DOWN. They’re screaming, and crying, and begging, but there is no savior. There is no savoir. There is no savior. Finally, they can’t fight anymore, they can’t, and the last sound to be heard before they crash into the raging ocean is Gerard crying “I love you” into the shell of Frank’s ear.

___________________________

When Ray awakens in the hospital fifteen days later, the first thing he does is open his mouth to ask where they are, but one glance at Bob’s face and he doesn’t have to, doesn’t want to. Mikey is sitting beside Bob and in all the years they’ve known each other, Ray doesn’t ever remember seeing Mikey this torn up, this broken, not even when his grandmother died. The bags under his eyes are so dark it appears as though they’ve been penciled in with eyeliner, and his eyes are bright red and raw. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t look up, doesn’t move...can’t.

It’s Bob that hugs him for an unimaginably long time as he cries, and Bob who calls the nurse when the pain in his right leg becomes far too intense to bear, and Bob who is utterly, grievously honest with him when he realizes he can’t move his left arm. He realizes he can’t wiggle his fingers or lift his elbow. And when he looks Bob straight in the eye, his own eyes screaming the words “They can fix this right??”, slowly, very, very slowly, Bob shakes his head and his eyes cast downward, solemn, apologetic, and honest.

He cries, he cries and cries and cries until his eyes resemble that of Mikey’s and Bob makes him stop because he’s afraid his friend is going to make himself sick. Moments later, the doctor enters the rooms with a look of sympathy and Ray does not talk, only nods and shakes his head when necessary. The doctor sighs and moves to leave them alone. When he reaches the doorway he turns and says,

“You’re an extremely lucky man, Mr. Ortiz.”

This makes him so angry he grabs the lamp on his bedside table with his right hand and chucks it as hard as he can at the now closed door.

__________

It’s nighttime now. Visiting hours are over, and his room is eerily silent. He’s terrified to go to sleep, but he can’t stand staying awake. He’s thirsty, and the fucking nurse has left his water on the left side of his bed, and he doesn’t feel like rolling over just to get some goddamn water. His right fist clenches in frustration and he wonders how the fuck he’s going to live with a paralyzed arm, for christ’s sake.

He’s crying now, again, and why the fuck shouldn’t he? He lost two best friends, his band, his damn arm, and the ability to play music in ten minutes, and it’s his fault. His fucking fault. He lies there for hours, tears slipping from his eyes with silent grace. He could do it. It’s right there and oh, how he wants to. He’s gazing at it and he knows perfectly well he can, knows he will, eventually, because he is sure he’s not strong enough to hold on.

So...why wait?

He rolls over, picks up his water, and rolls back, with slight annoyance. His right hand grasps the bottle the stupid nurse left on the table, and he dumps the entire contents into his mouth, gulping down the water. It hurts to swallow so many, but within five minutes he’s no reason to care. No reason to care because he’s soaring into the clouds and it’s a lovely, freeing feeling, and he’s flying faster than her thought possible, but as quickly as it began, it ends. Suddenly he is pulled downward and absolutely nothing there to save him. He is plummeting down, down, down, DOWN. He’s writhing and screaming in protest, but there is no savior. There is no savior. There is no savior....until finally, he can’t, just can’t fight anymore. He curls himself into death’s welcoming arms, and is gently carried to the tendrils of eternity.