A Lost Goodnight for Broken Boys

What happened to us, Quentin?

Running my eyes across your pale face, staring into your cold, blue eyes, I block out the gentle voices of the EMTs that are telling me to let go. There's too much noise, too many hands trying to take you from me. I can't breathe, can't let you go. I won't let them. I won't. If they do, you'll really be gone and the last piece of me that's left will crack. I'll be broken.

Why didn't you come to me?

A weak whine of protest leaves my throat as I try to pull you tighter to me; to keep you with me. "No," I cry, "no." Shoving at the bodies that are surrounding me, suffocating me. "Go away," I sob. "Don't take him away." My baby boy, my fiancé, just mine. The ring covering your delicate finger glints from the sunlight pouring through the curtains. Only a week away and you'd have been Mr. Caine.

Mr. and Mr. Oakley Caine.

What did I do wrong? Could I have fixed it?

I can't even remember what we fought about, but I guess that was all you needed. Just one more reason to go. One more person to add to the list of those that you think don't care about you. But...I do care. God, do I care. I should have never left you alone, but I thought it was what you wanted. You told me to go, so I went. I'm so sorry. You're worth more than I could ever give you. A beautiful boy who felt like he had nothing, yet shone brighter than the rest, who deserved everything under the sun and more. I wish I could have given that to you.

I'm sorry I wasn't enough.

You wanted to go to school remember. Neonatal nursing. "The babies," you would say. "I want to help the babies, Oak." All I can see now are watery images of a future that we could have had; one with you helping our babies when they get hurt or building forts in the living room when rain kills the power. I wanted to do that with you. I still want to do that with you.

Would you build a family with me if you hadn't gone?

You were so strong. I can't believe how lucky I was to find someone with a bravery like yours. You never let anyone put you down. You stood your ground for yourself and what you believed in and I was always so proud to tell people that you were my boyfriend. That I was going to marry you some day and how we were going to have a house full of babies because that's what you wanted. I would do anything for you.

I miss you.

They finally loosen my grip enough to take you away and zip you up in that black bag, whisking you out the door. Hands pat me in false comfort and whispered words of empty condolence are said, before the door shut behind them. They just took my life from me.

Do you hate me? You should.

It's dark. Pitch black. I'm not sure what the time is or even what day it is. It feels like it was only seconds ago that I had lost you, but it has to have been days. A couple friends and family members have come over, cleaned up, tried to get me to eat. I haven't. They made me get on the bed to try and get some sleep, but I got back down as soon as they left. That spot. I haven't moved from it since the first time they made me move. They know better now than to try, I refuse and fight every time.

You were in so much pain,weren't you? I get it now. I'm in pain, too.

Usually this time of night, we'd be curled around each other, the heat trapped beneath the covers keeping us warm to the bone as we talk about our day. You would complain about some of your more challenging classes and essays that you had no idea how to start, your cute button nose flaring in distaste, and I would complain about the long hours and rude customers at the record shop. You would hit my chest and giggle, "Be nice, Oakley."

Our conversation would slowly drift off as your eyelids fluttered while you tried so hard to stay awake; your long eyelashes creating shadows on your soft cheeks. I'd smile and whisper for you to go to bed and you'd shake your head, telling me you weren't tired, only to yawn halfway through your sentence. A sheepish smile would work its way across your features and a blush would cover the tips of your ears, cheeks, and the tip of your nose. Laughing, I'd pull you close and kiss your rose pink lips, tell you how I love you, and rest your head on my chest after your reply on how much you love me too. I'd wait until I felt your breath even out before falling asleep myself.

Did you have good dreams when you were here?

And now... now it's nothing. It's cold floors and inky black; it's quiet and broken; it's void. There's no warm body to hold close to me, no words whispered as if we were sharing secrets even if we were alone. No one to kiss, no one to say 'I love you' to when the lights went out. How am I supposed to go from having everything to nothing and be okay? I can't.

Maybe it was always quiet and void for you. I hate to think that it might be true.

I read your favorite book. The pages are worn with use and many are dog-eared, but it's yours. You wrote the little notes in the crevices, you highlighted your favorite parts; from front to back, this book is yours. So, I read. I can't remember much of what I do, but I feel like I have to, to keep some part of you with me. I remember Thomas and Grievers and something about Shank and Greenie. But, what I remember most are the smiley faces you drew on the pages that made you happy, the curses you wrote when you were angry and an arrow pointing to the person or situation that caused it, the quote you highlighted with my name by it that had lines scribbled so hard underneath it that the page had been ripped through:

“She smiled for the first time, and he almost had to look away, as if something that nice didn’t belong in such a glum and gray place, as if he had no right to look at her expression.”

Did you write my name because you felt I was too good for you? Because if that's true, I would tell you that you, Quentin, were so much more than me, baby. Fuck, you still are and always will be. You were never glum or gray. You were vibrant.

I would tell you over and over until you believed that nothing was as magnificent as you.

Would you read it to me instead?

I'm forgetting. Pictures only provide so much. Your voice, smooth and homey and always so warm, was fading. I can barely remember what it sounded like when you spoke my name. The pink that would dust your cheeks or your ears and that shy smile that would form on your lips when I said something sweet or something naughty. The way your whole demeanor would change and your pupils would blow wide when you would initiate sex. The way you'd lay out in the backyard, propped up on your elbows with your head tilted back so you could absorb the heat from the sun; the shadows it created across your lithe, curvaceous body and how it never failed to take my breath away.

I'm losing every memory I have of you. The real life memories, not the ones frozen on glossy paper, and I don't know how much more I can take. Please don't leave me here, empty of everything I had of you.

Please?

Remind me of how you feel, won't you?

I took a shower today. I'm too numb to feel the water, but I was red when I got out, so I guess it was hot. I ate a little, too. I could only stomach a couple crackers and an apple slice, but it was more than I've been eating.

I still don't know what day it is. I guess I should check that sometime.

I don't know why the electricity or heating haven't been shut off. I haven't paid bills since you went away. I figure someone from my family or yours is paying them. I should find out who and thank them. It's something you would do, thanking our friends and family for their continuous generosity. You'd yell at me if I didn't. "Be polite." Right?

Tell me you are in a better place?

I read something and I felt like the hollowness that had embedded itself into my skin all the way down through my bones was punched raw all over again.

“You can love someone so much...But you can never love people as much as you can miss them.”

A simple quote with such a presence, such significance and I can't seem to shake off the oncoming breakdown that's been building for weeks now. I don't know if I can live like this much longer.

If I could've saved you then, would you save me now?

Today was my 19th birthday. People came with cake and ice cream, neatly wrapped presents with my name on them and colorful cards, shouted words meant to be happy wishes. Couldn't they see that nothing they said or got me could ever be what I wanted. What I needed.

All I want and need is you.

But I can't have you anymore.

I'm so tired, Quentin.

I haven't slept in days. Moving is almost impossible without swaying, using the walls for support while I drag my feet across our carpet-clad floors. But sleep is just as impossible since every time I close my eyes, I see your face.

Did you go for days without sleeping?

It's been almost a year. How I've survived this long, I'll never understand. But I know I've dug myself way too deep to hope for a way out of the suffering.

I've been losing myself these past few weeks. I've passed out a couple times from dehydration and lack of food. Eating makes me sick. I have hours of blank spots, days I can't remember at all. One minute it's only one in the afternoon, then next it's eight at night, and in between there's nothing. That's not normal, is it?

Would you hate me for drowning?

You left me today. It's been a year, but today—this month and this day—you left me. I remember what we fought about. You asked me how you looked in your new jeans and shirt and I had barely glanced up from the inventory papers from work before telling you that you looked okay. You went quiet and shrunk in on yourself, whispered an "oh" in that meek, wounded tone and shuffled back into our room.

I still didn't look up.

Later, when I had crawled into our covers and went to pull you close, to say goodnight, you flinched away and curled into yourself tight. I took my hand back and frowned before trying again. I reached out to brush my fingertips down your shoulder and that had been what fueled your fire. You sat up and shoved me back, yelling that you pulling away from me should have been enough of a sign to "keep your fucking hands to yourself, you insensitive piece of shit!"

I could never, ever come up with the words to even start to apologize for the hate that came from me that night. I've made myself sick for days on end, letting the guilt encompass me whole when thinking about the things I said. You weren't just okay; you were beautiful and knowing that you took your life thinking that I thought you were anything less than perfect eats away at me everyday.

I deserve this pain.

Will you let me say I'm sorry?

I'm lying in that spot again. It's quiet, but it's okay now. A year was enough for me to see how much fight I had left. I can't be away from you anymore. I know you'll be mad at me for giving up, but I'm not going to be sorry. I put that ring on your finger and made promises to you for years down the road, for a reason. Now, we'll always young and together forever. It may not be the forever I thought of when I asked you to marry me, but at least it'll be you and I.

I was told that the longer you were gone, the lighter the ache I felt from losing you would get and that is the cruelest lie I have ever been told. Because I do not feel lighter or like my wounds are healing. They're still raw and burning; slowly eating away at me until I'm nothing but hollow.

I know you'll be so angry with me for leaving life early to be with you sooner, but I can't feel any regret when this decision will be one that will bring you back to me. To see your face, hear your voice, listen as you call my name...I will be whole again. Nothing will ache, nothing will feel hollow or empty or lost or broken and I could cry at knowing what that must be like again. I can't stay away from you any longer, I lost that fight a long time ago.

I love you, Quentin, so much. I'll see you soon and I promise that this time...this time I will never let you go.

"I never wanted to say goodbye,
I only ever wanted to say goodnight.
There's a big difference."