I Fall Short of Your Grace

I didn’t ask to be this way.

Upon assumption though, of course, that’s what everyone thinks.

Well, they’re wrong. When I can’t take it anymore, I lay in bed with Vic and sob into his chest.

He tells me not to let it get to me, that everything will be alright.

Even though he knows the circumstances.

There’s no hope for a gay kid with HIV in America. As much as America is “free”, what freedoms do I really have? There’s just no hope.

I figured I’d write in this handy dandy notebook Vic gave me for Christmas last year. Writing has always helped.

When Vic wasn’t trying to keep up with the bills, he supplied me with notebooks, and loose leaf paper.

I have binders and notebooks full of my thoughts and lyrics. Just in case I die, there they are.

Vic tells me to stop thinking like that. That if I think that I’m gunna die, then I might as well just off myself because it will happen.

I know he doesn’t mean it. That he loves me. He’s just stressed.

These hospital and house bills don’t pay for themselves.

I had a full-time job at the local tribune, but Vic made me step down to part time. He says I need rest.

I think he’s oppressive.

I feel strong, like the disease never even happened.

It’s a white lie to myself. I know what the deal is. But whatever helps me sleep at night, right?

I found out I had HIV three months ago. Blood test. Vic broke down worse than I have ever seen a homo cry.

“Kellin,” he whispered while holding my head to his chest. “It’s gunna be okay. You’re gunna live.”

I wanted to tell him the mere truth, that everyone is gunna die sooner or later. I don’t think he would’ve been amused, though.

I would’ve.

He doesn’t really understand my sense of humor, but he appreciates that it’s there.

I guess it’s what keeps him around.

I asked him, a while back, why he still puts up with my shit. The fact that I’m doomed to die an early death. Why he still even bothers.

He hit me playfully upside the head and told me to never to say that again. I’m not doomed to die. And he’s staying by my side ‘til the day I do.

I think it’s sooner than he expects. Why?

As the days go on, the nights get longer.

Leave at 9. Come home at 3. Try to get some shut eye.

Eyes open. Eyes closed. Eyes open longer. Eyes closed shorter.

Vic comes home from a long day of architecture. Dinner is made. He lies down and I snuggle my head into his chest.

His heartbeat slows. His inhales take longer.

My eyes don’t close.

Hour after hour. Torture. This goes on for weeks, One hundred sleepless nights.

I don’t tell Vic about my sleeping habits. He’s already worried sick.

He’ll take me to the hospital.

I don’t wanna go there.

The hallways smell like old people and soup.

They remind me of my fate, death. Not what I want to be around.

Monthly check-ups are somewhat getting better though. As the year has progresses, my doctor says I’m getting better. Vic smiles.

There’s even talk of it going away. It’s a long shot, indeed, but there’s hope.

He says I’m not showing any infections or symptoms. I could be cured in a year.

He thinks Vic has something to do with it. Vic is proud.

I don’t like some of the looks we get in the hallways in the hospital, as we walk hand-in-hand.

It shouldn’t bother me, I know. Vic walks with his chest out, he’s proud of us. I am, as well.

But the degrading looks do not help.

It’s like they know what’s wrong.

That I have HIV.

People give me this look, as if I contracted it from Vic.

They’re poorly mistaken.

I try to walk fast, get checked up or get my medication, and walk out.

Vic says it’s better if I just ignore it, and he’s right. But again, I wear my insecurities on my sleeve.

The nights became unbearable. Until I started hitting walls.

Fourteen hour “naps”.

Vic didn’t mind it at first He thought it was the medication taking affect. But then the weekends hit.

Fourteen turned into eighteen, turned into twenty.

Vic takes me to the doctor. James Hartford, MD.

He says nothing is wrong. My MRI’s look fine. It’s just the medication, Vic.

He’s a worried Willy, I tell you.

That night, when we got home, before Vic kissed my lips, he smiled and said, “Your doctor won’t stop calling me your medication. ”

It was true. Dr. Hartford thinks Vic has some sort of magic powers, or that his love is healing me.

Dr. Hartford is a bit of a nutcase if you ask me.

Year two, and my doctor says I’m almost fully healed.

The doctors in the Gentry Hospital think I’m an angel from the heavens above. Countless blood tests and and MRI’s later, and they don’t understand why I’m not dead yet.

“Dying is a gift, so close your eyes and rest in peace. ” Vic said to me a couple of nights after we found out I had the virus.

I’m beating the odds. Vic is proud of me. He’s less stressed. My sleeping schedule is normal again.

I can work nine to twelve hour shifts again. Vic can stop working fourteen to eighteen hours now.

I took a look up in the sky. “Mom,” I whispered to it, “I was almost there. We were almost together again, we will be. One day. You, Vic, and I, we’ll be a big happy family in the pearly gates. “