The author & the fiddle player (prlg)

They say you won’t wake up. Ever.

They say that you are asleep for now, that you like it that way, and that you won’t come back to me. They say I’ll never see your smile again. I’ll never hear your laughter again. You will no longer talk to me on the sofa in the middle of the night when we are lying there, completely entangled. You will never again whisper to me that you love me. Very much. Every day a little more. You’ll never push ice-cream in my face again when you’re mad, and I’ll never see you hiding your too obvious grin when you do that to me. Never again. All those things.

How could he take you from me? How could he do that? He hates me, not you. Why would, how could he hurt you – my sweet boy – to get to me?

I hate him. I hate him so much.

I’ll tell you the truth, Noah, I want to do to him what he did to you. And so much more. I’d like to rip his heart out and roast it in the oven. I don’t know if an oven can roast things, but we’ll soon find out, won’t we? I know you’re against violence, but an eye for an eye, isn’t that fair? What they did to you certainly wasn’t fair.

I can play by his rules, if he wants me to. I can be brutal, violent, without remorse. If you were awake you’d probably hit me over the head with a frying pan, but I can’t let them get away with this. A lawyer, that’s what your family wants. And a trial. Justice. I’m rather looking for retribution.

It’s the same thing, you know, justice and retribution. They both can be cruel, pains in the ass.

One of those guys in white comes back in and it looks like he’s checking something. I don’t bother asking him what the hell he’s doing. I know he won’t answer me. They never do. They murmur something about heartbeat, brain activity and some really freaky medical terms that no-one can understand. As long as your heart beats, I know you’re with me. I don’t know for how long, I don’t know if I’ll ever see the real you again, but I know you’re here. That thought keeps me going. I mustn’t think anything else, I don’t want to cry. I already did it way too often lately. Boys don’t cry. Not even when their boyfriend is lying like a plant in a white, apathic room in a hospital. Not even when his boyfriend doesn’t even move anymore. Not even when he feels left behind, looking at the back of a train that has already left, knowing he’ll never be able to catch it. Ever.

How long has it been since I last heard your voice? Three weeks, maybe. Do you know that I come here almost every day to see you, to know you’re okay, you’re breathing, you haven’t left me behind?

Do you still know me, I wonder. The doctors say ‘maybe’ when I ask them if you can hear me. Maybe you are awake, but you just can’t move or see. Maybe you will wake up. Maybe not. Maybe, maybe, that word drives me crazy. I want certainty, now. I want to know if I’ll ever talk to you again, not a monologue, but a real conversation.

Maybe I should just give up, they say. Even your family says it. Even Larry. They think you won’t wake up either. It’s too late for him, he should’ve woken up already, the operation was too hard to handle, he was to wounded.

That’s bullshit. Crap that I can’t swallow.

I know you’re in there, Noah. Somewhere out there is my sweet boy. How can they already toss the towel in the ring? The fight isn’t over. You’re still fighting, so I am too. And don’t you dare call me a fool, I know you would.

The doctor leaves us alone again. It’s way too silent in here, this room gives me the creeps. I wish your room would be painted in bright red, your favorite color. I’d put some Roxy Music posters on the wall, bring new flowers every day, open up a window.

Do they even do that? It smells musty in here. No wonder you’ve not woken up. Who would like to rise in this shit? I’d keep sleeping too, you know. I laugh to myself, but there’s no humor in it.

I walk over to the window. Even the view seems white to me, it’s like living in a freaking box. A very, very white box. Jeez, hard to breath. I pull and I pull and then I curse and pull some more, but the window won’t even make a noise.

Sorry I cursed, by the way, I know you don’t like it. In the past weeks, I’ve been doing that a lot. Can’t help myself. I’ll put a curse jar on the table back home, then you’ll be a rich man when you leave this hospital. I refuse to say ‘if’.

God, I miss you. I want to shout it out, let the walls of this stupid building tremble, but I feel so goddamn empty inside, so weak that I don’t even have the power to scream. Some invisible force is squeezing on my throat and I feel, I panic, I can’t get enough air. All those memories are killing me, Noah. They twist the knife around and ‘round, never giving the wound a chance to heal. Like, I remember the time we were at my house, making dinner together. Well, actually, I don’t know if you could call that concoction we made ‘real dinner’, but I’m sure you’d be able to recall that moment if you were awake. Again: IF. Stupid, ugly word. It expresses something that could happen, but it is not sure, will never be so. But I digress again.

It was so simple then. It was just you and me, rather playing with our food than eating it, but having so much fun. All my life, I’d always been a Mr. Serious, but that time was different. There was something about the air around us, the feeling you radiated that made my tummy go nuts.

You had me open up to you, you offered me your heart so I’d give you mine. Well, baby, you have it and I never want it back. That was the moment I knew that I was head over heels in love with you. It hurts terribly when I think about it, but I won’t ever forget it.

You were smiling when the water of the potatoes was boiling over and we had to intervene and then you slapped me on the butt with a towel and I chased you through the house and we were snickering, and running, and finally you were in my arms laughing like a hyena, but it was the funniest and cutest thing I’d ever seen in my life. Yep, you had me wrapped around your finger. (You still have J).

There’s a black and white clock on the wall that tells me to get out of here. I don’t want to leave you, you know that, but I have to. Otherwise the Institution won’t let me come back here. That was the deal: “Get back by six, not a split second later or we’ll have your ass hanging on the wall like a Christmas decoration.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow. Promise.”

I kiss you goodbye, my lips on your forehead, and I close my eyes.

I don’t know how long it took me to let you go, it seems harder every day. Wake up, baby, please, please, wake up. Sometimes I even think I see you move your hand or your eyebrow, but when I take a good look…Nothing. Like you’re a statue and I’m Pygmalion, wishing you’d be real. Is this even real? I don’t know anymore. I feel so tired. So fucking tired.

But I’ll be back tomorrow. And the day after tomorrow. And the day after that. We are warriors, you and me, and we don’t give up. Ever.

Promise.

Aileen, the woman who has to keep an eye on me for DC, is waiting for me in the hallway. “Ready?”

“No.”

She looks at me with pity in her eyes. “Don’t give up hope, sweetheart, he’ll come back to you.”

“I hope so.”

I get back to my apathic room at the DC Institution, feeling angry and hurt. I hate my father, I want him to hurt. Unfortunately, for the time being, I’m stuck in this shithole. Excuse me for my language, but I feel like I’m going nuts. The walls are trying to press me in a corner, I can’t breathe in here. I have to open up a window, have to, have to. But, just like in the hospital, the bitch won’t open. I’ve already tried a thousand times, but, apparently, people fear that I will jump out of this three stories high building, Batman-style, and magically land on my feet without breaking all the bones in my body.Then, of course, I’ll crack the code to the gate, kidnap our head to make sure no-one will follow me, make a car appear out of nowhere, marry it, ride with it to Crazy Town and live happily ever after.

Yeah, right. That’s why I can’t have some fresh air. Seriously.

But I don’t mean to be a bitch about everything. We have a garden here in which I can spend some time. They trust me enough to be out there on my own, within the vision of their holy camera’s, of course. I can also have visitors, but they come rarely. My father’s locked up. Noah is in the hospital, so that leaves me with Larry.

Lucky me.

And with no Internet, Word is the most exiting program on my PC. Get ready, keyboard, you’ll be burning when I’m done.