The day I died

You know there’s something wrong when your boyfriend is lying in bed next to you, dying, and you don’t take him to the hospital because you’re too fucked up from all the drugs you took the night before.
See, I went out Saturday night and I got really fucked. I can’t really bring myself to go into details, not now. But anyway, I got him, my boyfriend, to come pick me up Sunday morning. I got into the car and started raving about the kick-ass night I’d had. I didn’t even notice how all over the place his driving was until we were half way home. I pulled myself out of my little self-obsessed daze for long enough to look over at him. He was hunched right up over the wheel and blinking a lot. He’d blink real hard and sort of shake his head every now and then and then he’d wince like he was in pain. I asked him what was going on. He said he was sick and his guts were aching. I was silent. His driving got pretty bad. I was totally freaked out that he was gonna kill us. It didn’t help that I was going through a stage of extreme paranoia at that point.
I relaxed a bit when we finally got home. But then he started saying all this weird shit. You have no idea how freaked out I got. He reckoned that the Chinese had taken over Japan and that they’d gotten into his head and re-written history. Or something like that anyway. Then he started just saying all this random stuff that didn’t even make sense. It was just this jumble of words that had no connection to each other. I was so paranoid, I thought that someone else had gotten into his body and he wasn’t him any more, you know? And I got myself convinced that I was terrified of him. He was lying curled up on his side of the bed, and I was sitting curled up in the corner, pulled as far away from him as I could get, and I just sat there staring at him with this horrified expression on my face. Every now and then, he’d open his eyes and look at me and try to tell me that it was okay and he just wasn’t feeling well. But I’d just freak out. I wouldn’t let him touch me and I told him I was scared of him. I told him. God, how could I say that to him? I tried to convince him that he wasn’t himself anymore, that he’d changed. He just looked at me, with an understanding smile and said that I’d feel better once the drugs wore off. I told him that it wasn’t the drugs, that he was the problem. He just said okay and let it go.
He started moaning a little while after that. It really annoyed me because I was still kinda buzzed and it was hard enough trying to get to sleep without him making all that noise. I asked him to keep it down. I mean, in the condition I was in I was no use to him, so it was in both our interests for me to get some sleep. He said he’d try.
I have to admit, I didn’t really believe he was sick. I don’t know why he’d fake it, but that’s what I was convinced he was doing.
Anyway, I couldn’t get to sleep all day. I’d had a couple of cones before I’d come home, which usually knocks me out, but that day it just didn’t work for some reason. I got stuck in that really annoying thing where you’re caught half way between asleep and awake. Your body just keeps wanting to move, and if you don’t move it, you get these involuntary twitches which jerk you into full consciousness. I kept needing to pee too. And then I’d get to the toilet and spend half an hour waiting for it to come. Plus I was having sort of semi-hallucinations – they’re not full-on ‘you’re seeing things’ hallucinations, they’re just partial hallucinations. Things just look weird, or dirty when they’re not. Or things warp and distort or they have auras. And when you shut your eyes and try to sleep, your mind keeps putting up these random pictures, or making up stupid stories and playing them out. It’s really confusing and it really feels like you’re not making it up, like it couldn’t possibly be coming from your own mind. It’s hard to explain.
Anyway, I finally got to sleep sometime after it got dark and then I didn’t wake up until late the next morning. I felt better, but really, really tired. I turned over to see how he was doing. He was curled up still and sort of shivering. I touched his arm and he jerked away from me. I guess he wasn’t expecting it. I started thinking then that maybe he wasn’t faking it. It seemed like too much effort to put in for no conceivable gain. I asked him if he wanted to go to the hospital. He said yes please. I nodded. I just needed a little more sleep though. I told him, I said I’d just have a little more sleep and then I’d get up and take him to the hospital. He said that was okay. Whenever you’re ready, he said. I told him I loved him. He said he knew that and that he loved me too. Then I rolled over, put a pillow over my head and went straight back to sleep.
“A little more sleep” ended up being about 5 hours. I woke up a couple of times but each time I decided I needed just a bit more and so I’d drift off again. It was late afternoon when I finally decided I’d better get up. I was still really tired and could’ve kept sleeping but I figured I’d better see how he was doing. I sat up and looked at him. He was totally still. At least he wasn’t shaking anymore. I figured maybe the worst was over. I touched his arm. He didn’t jerk this time. I shook him. He didn’t move at all. I told him to stop playing around but he still didn’t move. He didn’t look right. And he didn’t feel right either. His skin didn’t feel like skin anymore. And his lips… I put my hands on his chest. There was no movement. I started freaking out, but it was that really still, internal sort of freak out that you get when you’re really exhausted. My body didn’t really react to it. I tried to find a pulse; on his arm, and then his neck. Nothing.
I shook him. And then, I don’t know why, but I hit him. I hit him. I think I slapped his face. And then I sort of punched him in the chest. With both my hands. Two fists. I don’t know why.
I think it was a while before I called the ambulance. My memory isn’t too clear.
I didn’t stay around though, I didn’t find out what happened. I just sort of left. I took a couple of things and I left. I’m still in a bit of a daze really, actually. I don’t know what I’m doing. Or what I’m going to do. I just couldn’t face seeing people, or being there any more.
He was so nice about it. So polite. He just patiently lay there dying, waiting for me to feel good enough to help him.
Its funny how alone you can be, even in company. I was there with him the whole time, but he couldn’t have been more thoroughly alone.
I will never feel good again, that’s my punishment. I can’t kill myself – that would be too easy. I have to live with what I did. Until, finally, I can curl up alone, like he did, and die.

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death, life, short and story