Mad World

"There's no exit wound." The words were distant. "We need to do an emergency surgery, he's losing too much blood."

Another voice said, "He has internal bleeding and his breast plate his cracked...."

They began to fade in and out. My eyes wouldn't open. Hands all over me.

Poking.
Prodding.
Stabbing.
Cutting.

A mask was placed over my mouth and a machine was feeding me oxygen into my lungs, one filled with blood. My chest spasmed and I began coughing violently. Warm liquid sprayed from my lips all over my mouth and chin.

Blood.
Oh, God!

I panicked. My breathing shortened and my hyperventilation caused me to choke and cough up more blood. I clawed at the sheet under me as I was moved from the gurney to the surgery bed.

Possibly my death bed...

I was injected with something. I was too weak and dazed to tense and scream at the feel of a needle in my skin. My whole body relaxed and my mind drifted. The sounds of talking around me, a heart monitor, and my heavy breathing all faded away and I seemed to become weightless...

And then my eyes opened.
I saw everything.
The surgeons were in a panic.
I looked around, not able to hear why they were freaking out.
I looked over...
OVER the doctor's shoulder and saw myself on the bed.

My chest was cut open, there was blood everywhere, and I looked asleep.
I looked peaceful.
Why such a peaceful face on such a mangled body?

And then a doctor busted out the defibrillator and it all hit me like a bus...

I'm dead!

I looked over at the heart monitor; the line straighter than me.
Heh-heh, homosexual jokes were funny, even in death.
I looked back my lifeless body and screamed.
But there was no sound.

I screamed and screamed and screamed. I sucked in a breath, let out a shaky sob, and screamed. I didn't need to inhale. I could scream all I wanted. After all...

I was dead.

***********************************************************************
Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, went the annoying machine that monitored my heart rate.

I pressed the sides of my pillow over my ears and groaned. My chest was throbbing along with my heart beat; the heart monitor echoed the feeling in my ears. Mom was softly snoring in the chair at the end of my bed. Dad was at home with Mikey. Frank was...where was Frank?

My baby...
I hadn't seen him since I shot him.
I shot him,
Frank, my baby. My love. I hurt him. He didn't deserve me.

I couldn't move the next morning. I didn't want to move. I wanted to just lay here in this bed and die.

Frank didn't love me anymore, I was sure of that. Mikey hated me for being a victim of rape. And Mom and Dad were concerned about my mental health now that I've gone and shot Frank and myself.

When Mom finally rose, she smiled at me and softly held my toes idly.

"How're you doing, baby?" she asked me in a soft motherly tone.

"I'm hurting, Mama." I moaned, plugging my ears to block out the beeping. My chest ached. Mom traced a finger around the outlines of my foot and stared at me. "Mama, did I die?" I asked, taking my fingers out of my ears.

She didn't answer right away. She frowned and stood.

"Your heart did stop for about a good five minutes." Mom said as she approached me. She kissed my forehead which comforted me so much. I closed my eyes and frowned.

"Where's Frank?" I asked her, my throat beginning to ache as much as my chest. My heart beat quickened and the monitor relayed it, sounding my nervousness like a siren. I opened my eyes and saw Mom staring at the heart monitor in question and then at me. "Where is he?" I asked again.

"He's at home. They dug the bullet out, wrapped up his leg, let him stay the night in a room, and sent him home this morning." she stopped.

"Does he hate me?" I whispered, beginning to cry without even a chance of controlling it. My whole body ached now, making me cry some more. This wasn't fair. Why didn't they let me die?

"No! Of course he doesn't. If he truly loved you from the start, this wouldn't make him love you any less. He knows you're sick, Gerard. He knows you aren't---"

"I get it!" I sobbed. My chest felt like it was going to rip open from its stitches. Mom ran her hands over my hair to comfort me. "I want him here. I want to hear him say he loves me. I want to tell him how sorry I am. Oh, Mama, I wanna die!"

"No, you don't. I'd hug you, but I don't want to pop a stitch." Instead, she kissed my head again. "I'll be back in a few hours. I'll have Frank call you."

"Thanks."

She blew me a kiss before saying, "I love you" and leaving me in this bed, alone.