Found Missing

"I love you."

He giggles breathlessly over my lips, wincing with the words blurted so heedlessly from the back of his throat. "I mean, I think-I can't believe I just said that-"
"Shut up, you idiot."

Slamming my mouth to Gerard's I grin, feeling the curve of his thin lips reflect mine. I don't say it back, I'm not sure why. I have a feeling that I should, although he seems too preoccupied with licking the ice cream from my tongue to care. I've always protected myself when it comes to love, maybe that's my problem. Maybe I'm a coward, maybe, after seeing how much my mother had loved my father, or how much I thought Gerard had loved Martha, maybe I'm afraid of how much it will hurt.

"I fuckin' love you, y'know that right?"

He drawls, cold saliva left in patches over my collarbone, raspy gasps in coordination with his words congealed with vomit. "You're an angel, y'know? Like, an actual angel. Is Jesus real?-"
"Shut up, you idiot."

I've never seen him so intoxicated, even in the aftermath of Martha's death, even with tequila and Xanax and whatever other concoction of medication I've never seen him so utterly fucked. The birthday boy who only wanted something small has spent the majority of his night downing spirits and pills with Matt in the backroom of someones shitty bedsit. The smell of chip fat from the diner below is enough to make me gag, I'm not even drunk.

"I mean it, though." He splutters over the toilet bowl. "After all of this, after everything, you mean more to me than everything, anything."

"What are you chatting about, Gerard?"

He swallows, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. "It hurts."

"What?"

"I have no idea."

I sigh, running my hand over the length of his spine as he wretches over the toilet bowl yet again. I try not to think about how dirty the bathroom floor must be, although I don't think the tiles are supposed to be green. I try to ignore the concern gnawing at the back of my mind when I notice how quiet he's become, although I don't think his cheeks have ever been this pale. "You're just too drunk, aren't you." I mutter, to myself more than him. "You'll be better by tomorrow."

It isn't until he crumples into my lap, all skin and bones, colourless cheeks and shallow breath, that I realize the sunshine does not counterpart to our happiness. I've always preferred the rain, anyway.

*

"Do you want to call anyone?"

I blink, suddenly finding myself inches away from an elderly woman's face. I wonder how long she's been stood here.

"No-"
"Maybe you should call his mother, she needs to know."
"No."

I shake my head, forcing a smile quickly. "No, no it's fine. He wouldn't want her to worry."
The nurse returns my smile, I'm sure with a little more honestly than mine. "Okay dear, maybe you should call your mother, I don't think he'd want you to worry, either."

My mother. The closest person I have to a mother is Anne, and I know I can't call her, not about this. The idea of calling my real mother is out of the question, but suddenly, for the first time in years, all I want is her.

"It's fine." I say again, scooting my chair further to the hospital bed. "It's fine, I'll just wait for him to wake up." I link my fingers with his, hating how limp his hand feels in mine, hating how luminous his skin seems in the dull blue of the cubicle curtain, hating how vulnerable he looks; tubes and drains and drips connected all over. Most of all I hate how I had been so sightless in the event of this happening.

I don't know if he had wanted to end up here, but then if suicide had been his intention then I suppose the hospital would be the last place he'd wish to wake up in, if to wake up at all. Only days ago he had smiled so sweetly before falling into a heavy slumber without a bottle of anything in sight. I had sprinkled kisses over his face, feeling so secure in the idealistic lie of our happiness. Parallel to that feeling is the way my blood froze after his passing of consciousness on the bathroom floor, legs akimbo over the green tiles, the rise and fall of his chest nonexistent.

I sniff, oblivious to my weeping eyes until the pale pink bed quilt is dotted with tears. Too tired, I think, or perhaps just too deep in thought. I lean down to bury my face in his neck, hoping to smell cigarettes and wash powder, but all I can find is anesthetics.

*

Waking up to a pair of gaping eyes almost startles me, until I remember where I am. I squint, relieved in the way he feels so warm, so alive. "You scared me." I whisper and those eyes grow dark, darker than I've ever seen them before.

"I'm so sorry." He moves to touch my arm, the cannula in his hand catching on my skin. "If it's any consolation, I feel like death."

"Yea, death. They had to pump your stomach," I tell him. "whatever it was you took, it nearly killed you."

"I can't remember a thing."

"Of course you can't. You were dying." I say, all resentment intended. "I thought I was losing you. After everything, how could you do this? After Martha-"
"I didn't mean to, Elfie." He says, voice dry. "It was an accident."

"An accident?"

"I think so..."

"You think so?"

"I don't know."

I sigh, wiping my face with my hands, mascara everywhere I'm sure, but right now I could not care less. "I thought you were going to die." I say, softer this time, resting my hand over his on the quilt. "I thought you were better than before..."

"I don’t feel so much worse than I did before," he says quickly, "and I'm so much happier, with you." I listen, patiently hanging on his every word to catch a reason to why he had almost ended his life, intentionally or not. "It's just, sometimes I get lost in my head, y'know?"

I do know. I also know we've had a similar conversation in the past. I know that this conversation will go in circles until we're nothing but a pathetic, dizzy mess of apologies and false promises.

"I thought we were good for each other, Gerard..."

"And we are, we are, Elfie, you get me-"
"We're just going to hurt each other." I say, "We're just reminders of things probably left forgotten about."

"What are you saying?"

I lean over, pressing my lips to his cracked ones, relishing the feeling of him for the last time. "I love you, Gerard," I whisper, "but I can't save you."

"I don't need you to save me, I just need you."

"No, you don't." I tell him, "You need to get better, and being with me isn't going to help. I'm only going to remind you of what's happened - I'm only going to remind you of Martha."

I stand, prying his hand away from mine. "I'm going home." He sits up, grabbing my sleeves, shaking his head, welted eyes wide. "I'm going back to England."

"Don't do this, Elfie, don't-don't do-we can work this out-" I have to pick the grip of his fingers away, again and again, half clutching his hands, half pushing them back down to the quilt, muttering "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

I have to run from the ward before he has time to unhook his wires, avoiding the other residents as they watch on like we're in some god-awful soap opera. I come away with the wetness of tears in my mouth; mine or his, probably both.