Will I Lose My Dignity?
001; Visiting Hours
I had been sitting in the car for about three minutes in the parking lot of the old hospital; an unlit cigarette dangling from my mouth. I sat, gripping the wheel, my knuckles white and bloodless, staring ahead at the dull grey building. My old car radio was playing the acoustic version of Iris by the Goo Goo Dolls quietly. My eyes flickered to Georgia in the passenger seat. She sat looking at me, a whistful look in her depthless chocolate eyes. I released the wheel slowly and, shakily, went to stroke her face lovingly.
"Sorry, G. You can't come in with me," I whispered the words, my voice sounding harsh against the soft thrumming of John Rzeznik's guitar and the husky, melodic hush of his lyrics. She dipped her head slightly, nuzzling her warm fur into my hand. I smiled sadly across at the German shepherd, patted her one last time and got out of my car.
I checked my watch.
4:17 PM.
I was seventeen minutes late and I bit my lip, my teeth clinking against the cold metal of my lip ring. Across the lot I saw the slim, lithe figure of Mikey Way coming toward me, a cigarette, half smoked, gripped firmly between his lips. Over the last few months I'd seen his face become more and more drawn. When we'd first met he'd been a shining beacon in the darkest of nights, a towering picture of intelect, my own personal 'Google' when something fascinated me or when I simply wanted to know how they got the jam inside the doughnut.
But now, he hardly spoke and when he did, it was so quiet and usually as cynical as an old man in the final throes of his life. Mikey reached me and dropped the butt of his cigarette to the ground. We watched the orange pinpoint of glowing fire dim and then die on the wet asphalt of the parking lot.
"How is he?" I asked, my voice no more than a croak and I needed to swallow past the forming lump in my throat. The once smiling, fun-loving younger brother of my best friend, shook his head sadly and walked on. The lump in my throat grew larger as I walked toward the large and looming, double doors.
The familiar smell of disinfectant beat at my nose as I walked down grimy corridors. I past doors that lead to rooms filled with the sick, the dying and I shuddered. No matter how much I hated hospitals, this one was the worse. Those who came in on a gurney, left in a wooden box. You didn't come here to get better. You came here to die.
I acknowledged this thought as the pungent , musky smell of death and decay scraped along my tongue and throat once the bite of the disinfectant had worn off. Corridor after grey, dull, grim corridor, staircase after dark staircase and I finally made it to him.
His room was at the end of the corridor, with a door that was always closed, a window that's curtains were always drawn, thwarting the harsh rays of October's sunshine from breaking through. I opened the door without knocking and stepped into the room with off-white walls, once-white tiling on the floor that was caked with grime and dust, making it a nasty grey-yellow.
The bed stood stark and white and clean against the backdrop of death and decay.
His body was skeletal; his skin paler than death, stretched across his protruding bones and I was afraid it may split. The harsh fluorescent lighting beat down against him, making his thin skin translucent. Blue and purple ropes were mapped out under the paper-like skin of his arms. I slowly made my way to the only chair in the room and quietly dragged it closer to the bed. I clasped one of his cold hands; they were like twin albino spiders, all spindely and brittle and I was afraid to grasp too tightly incase his twig-like fingers were to snap. He was so cold, like a ghost.
His face was gaunt, his once sparkling hazel eyes were now sunken and bloodshot, his long hair darker than night itself clung to his skull in sweaty rats-tails.
"F-Frank..." he croaked, saliva webbing his lips as his body was suddenly wracked with a coughing fit. I scooted closer, patting the sweat from his forehead with a clean cloth that was sitting on his bedside cabinet.
"Ssh... hush... " I soothed as I wiped away the tears that streamed down his cheeks. The violent spasms calmed and then stopped, leaving him drained, his breathing ragged. My eyes filled and I fought against them. I looked up past the headboard at the hundreds of cards and notes of support from fans all around the world had sent. My eyes lingered on one of the many little red ribbons. The ones that were given out freely on World AIDs Day. The ones you get given in schools and you and your friends just laugh it off; AIDs couldn't touch you, you weren't black or a dirty fag and you didn't live in the slums of a third world country.
You didn't know that you could get HIV from a heroin addiction.
Like you did, Gerard. My Gerard... I thought to myself as I brushed his sweaty hair from his face. He turned to look at me, his head rolling limply to the side, as if he'd heard my thoughts.
"T-the Doc says I'm looking better today," he says softly, his voice coarse and husky, thin and gravelly. I smiled sadly down at him, biting my lower lip to stop my chin from quivering. I hated that the Doctors and nurses lied to them, made them think that they were getting better. There's no cure for AIDs.
He won't get better.
I seemed to get lost in his glassy hazel eyes, his skeletal frame, his long, pale fingers; deaths grip on him was dragging him deep into his disease and I could not bring him out, I could not save him, and time ticked by.
Five PM and like clockwork, the nurse came into the room. She didn't say anything, just waited. I leaned down and kissed Gerard's cheek softly.
"I love you," I whispered in his ear softly, my voice sounding like velvet compared to his hoarse croak. I could almost hear his skin crack as his face broke into a smile.
"All I can taste is this moment
All I can breathe is your life.
'Cause sooner or later it's over
And I don't wanna miss you tonight..."
I sang the lyrics in a whisper, before letting a lone tear splash against his cheek and I left the building, the tears silently rolling down my cheeks.
_______________________
When visiting hours rolled around the following day, Gerard's bed was empty.
And so was Frank's heart.
"Sorry, G. You can't come in with me," I whispered the words, my voice sounding harsh against the soft thrumming of John Rzeznik's guitar and the husky, melodic hush of his lyrics. She dipped her head slightly, nuzzling her warm fur into my hand. I smiled sadly across at the German shepherd, patted her one last time and got out of my car.
I checked my watch.
4:17 PM.
I was seventeen minutes late and I bit my lip, my teeth clinking against the cold metal of my lip ring. Across the lot I saw the slim, lithe figure of Mikey Way coming toward me, a cigarette, half smoked, gripped firmly between his lips. Over the last few months I'd seen his face become more and more drawn. When we'd first met he'd been a shining beacon in the darkest of nights, a towering picture of intelect, my own personal 'Google' when something fascinated me or when I simply wanted to know how they got the jam inside the doughnut.
But now, he hardly spoke and when he did, it was so quiet and usually as cynical as an old man in the final throes of his life. Mikey reached me and dropped the butt of his cigarette to the ground. We watched the orange pinpoint of glowing fire dim and then die on the wet asphalt of the parking lot.
"How is he?" I asked, my voice no more than a croak and I needed to swallow past the forming lump in my throat. The once smiling, fun-loving younger brother of my best friend, shook his head sadly and walked on. The lump in my throat grew larger as I walked toward the large and looming, double doors.
The familiar smell of disinfectant beat at my nose as I walked down grimy corridors. I past doors that lead to rooms filled with the sick, the dying and I shuddered. No matter how much I hated hospitals, this one was the worse. Those who came in on a gurney, left in a wooden box. You didn't come here to get better. You came here to die.
I acknowledged this thought as the pungent , musky smell of death and decay scraped along my tongue and throat once the bite of the disinfectant had worn off. Corridor after grey, dull, grim corridor, staircase after dark staircase and I finally made it to him.
His room was at the end of the corridor, with a door that was always closed, a window that's curtains were always drawn, thwarting the harsh rays of October's sunshine from breaking through. I opened the door without knocking and stepped into the room with off-white walls, once-white tiling on the floor that was caked with grime and dust, making it a nasty grey-yellow.
The bed stood stark and white and clean against the backdrop of death and decay.
His body was skeletal; his skin paler than death, stretched across his protruding bones and I was afraid it may split. The harsh fluorescent lighting beat down against him, making his thin skin translucent. Blue and purple ropes were mapped out under the paper-like skin of his arms. I slowly made my way to the only chair in the room and quietly dragged it closer to the bed. I clasped one of his cold hands; they were like twin albino spiders, all spindely and brittle and I was afraid to grasp too tightly incase his twig-like fingers were to snap. He was so cold, like a ghost.
His face was gaunt, his once sparkling hazel eyes were now sunken and bloodshot, his long hair darker than night itself clung to his skull in sweaty rats-tails.
"F-Frank..." he croaked, saliva webbing his lips as his body was suddenly wracked with a coughing fit. I scooted closer, patting the sweat from his forehead with a clean cloth that was sitting on his bedside cabinet.
"Ssh... hush... " I soothed as I wiped away the tears that streamed down his cheeks. The violent spasms calmed and then stopped, leaving him drained, his breathing ragged. My eyes filled and I fought against them. I looked up past the headboard at the hundreds of cards and notes of support from fans all around the world had sent. My eyes lingered on one of the many little red ribbons. The ones that were given out freely on World AIDs Day. The ones you get given in schools and you and your friends just laugh it off; AIDs couldn't touch you, you weren't black or a dirty fag and you didn't live in the slums of a third world country.
You didn't know that you could get HIV from a heroin addiction.
Like you did, Gerard. My Gerard... I thought to myself as I brushed his sweaty hair from his face. He turned to look at me, his head rolling limply to the side, as if he'd heard my thoughts.
"T-the Doc says I'm looking better today," he says softly, his voice coarse and husky, thin and gravelly. I smiled sadly down at him, biting my lower lip to stop my chin from quivering. I hated that the Doctors and nurses lied to them, made them think that they were getting better. There's no cure for AIDs.
He won't get better.
I seemed to get lost in his glassy hazel eyes, his skeletal frame, his long, pale fingers; deaths grip on him was dragging him deep into his disease and I could not bring him out, I could not save him, and time ticked by.
Five PM and like clockwork, the nurse came into the room. She didn't say anything, just waited. I leaned down and kissed Gerard's cheek softly.
"I love you," I whispered in his ear softly, my voice sounding like velvet compared to his hoarse croak. I could almost hear his skin crack as his face broke into a smile.
"All I can taste is this moment
All I can breathe is your life.
'Cause sooner or later it's over
And I don't wanna miss you tonight..."
I sang the lyrics in a whisper, before letting a lone tear splash against his cheek and I left the building, the tears silently rolling down my cheeks.
_______________________
When visiting hours rolled around the following day, Gerard's bed was empty.
And so was Frank's heart.
♠ ♠ ♠
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