You know how people go on and on about "defining moments?" You know how people say they can see their life "flash before their eyes?" Well, seeing you curled up and crushed between the passenger's seat and the car door, not a single definition comes to mind. And the only thing flashing before my eyes is the streetlight flickering, the one you smashed straight into.
Pete's crying. He's sitting on the asphalt, right by the bright yellow caution tape, and he has his face in his hands, tears seeping from beneath them. He just can't hide it, no matter how hard he tries. He is not the hero this time. He'll never be able to hide how guilty he feels right now.
Guilty. Understatement of the century.
He's trembling in something more like emotional agony, and Brendon is trying his best to help him regain his composure. But me? I dont know what to do. There's chaos in every corner of my eye. There's my boyfriend being forced, unconscious, out of Pete Wentz's car; there's Pete Wentz drowning in his self-inflicted misery; and there's the ambulance and the fire truck, the little critters of the forest here to save the day. But what kind of wicked witch would take my prince from me like this? What kind of force could be so unbearably evil?
Pete.
But I'll keep my fucking mouth shut.
There's a big slamming sound, and the door is ripped off of Pete's car. His sobs increase. Your limp and helpless body collapses into one of the rescuers' arms, and I rush over to you. "Will he be alright?" I desperately ask the closest person I could find that looked semi-important, and they begin to lift your body onto the gurney. The prince gets the bed rest this time. But I swear, if I don't get to kiss you goodbye...
"Can I come?" I plead as you are rolled into the ambulance.
"Only immediate family," the person says, who I notice to be the ambulance driver.
I sigh in disbelief. This guy doesn't look like the kind that would be too down with this. "I'm his boyfriend," I say desperately, my shoulders dropping and eyes once again, welling with tears.
He looks at me in disgust, then he rolls his eyes and says, "Definitely not an excuse."
Ouch. I begin to shake in anger. I can feel my blood boil red. Then I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I'm about to smack it away, and even though it is only Brendon, I don't want to be touched, unless by you. I can only imagine the things I would give to have you breathing and alive and naked and in my arms right now, far, far away from here.
I look at Brendon, and I touch his pink cheeks. "They won't let me-"
"I know," he says softly, grabbing my wrist for the attention he so desperately doesn't need. "I'll drive you."
I bite my lip and then sigh in relief. I brush past Brendon and he manages to snake his arm around my waist for the quick walk to his car. His little fingers stroke my side soothingly, and he whispers things to me like "he's going to be fine" and "even God wouldn't seperate you two."
Brendon would know God best. But we're all still just taking best guesses.
Hospitals.
I've been in them too many times. I'm not one to complain about the expensive marble floor or extensive stays in the waiting room. Or the square wood-and-fabric chairs. Or the little brown bags that conceal your crazy pills. I'm not one to cry when you're sitting there minding your own personal fucked up business and suddenly you see a bleeding human wheeled down the hall, dozens of people running by with them. If I make any kind of reaction at all, I think of how it must feel; how the beautiful, ruby red blood leaks from an open chest.
But this time...it's different. This is you. This is our lives. This is you, my beautiful William, my everything. The boy that I spent sleepless nights talking to about whatever popped into our heads, because we both wanted to stay awake to watch the other sleep. The boy that loved me for me and proved it in every way he could.
You never should have trusted me.
"God wouldn't take him from us," Brendon whispers, his head laid on my shoulder, his hand clasped with mine on the center of the armrests. As long as I'd known Brendon, he'd never been religious. I always doubted he believed in any kind of god anymore. I always wondered if that was my influence on him. But it doesn't matter now, because God or no God, Brendon keeps telling me that me and you, we can't be seperated. No power in the world can do that.
Other than maybe Brendon.
You never. Should. Have trusted me.
A nurse comes out of your room and closes the door behind her. Brendon, Pete, and I all look at her as she stands before us, like a teacher confronting students. Like a priest scolding three unpure church boys. Like...like a nurse with bad news.
"William Beckett isn't in good condition," she comes out and says. I want to thank her for this, but I keep my mouth shut. "He wasn't out long, fortunately; he woke up in the ambulance. There's no immediate" (she severely emphasizes this word) "damage, but he is undergoing surgery in fifteen minutes." She pauses, hacking into our minds, reading our questions and formulating answers. "You may see him, but one at a time, and make it quick. Fifteen minutes."
She leaves and Brendon and Pete look at each other, then me. "Go, Ryan," Brendon says. "Take all the time you need."
It's strange getting up to enter your hospital room. It's strange the way my stomach does little amateur somersaults, as if the bottom of it is only a blue mat for it to roll all over. It's the effect of seeing you lay there all restrained on that hospital bed, your brown eyes staring at the ceiling in dismay.
"William..." I start, choked up.
Your eyes look over at me, but the rest of your body stays still, probably because it has to. Your lips are pursed in that little arrogant way. Your wrists are twisted upward on either side of you. You have that look that you just know I don't know what to say and you just know I won't find the words.
"Go for it, Ryan," you say suddenly. "Tell me I'm stupid. Tell me I'm worthless."
"You're neither," I say seriously. "You're one of the smartest people I know. And you're worth...so much more than what they tell you."
You stare back up at the ceiling and whisper, "I've still never been worth enough for you."
"William!" I exclaim, taking a step forward. "Where do you get off saying that?" I can feel my temper rise. Where is the temper in the body? Is it in your stomach, your head, your heart, your fists, your throat? I don't know, but I feel it. "Where do you get off-"
And you roll your head back tiredly, tears leaking out of the corners of your eyes, and I am forced to stop speaking. Your brown eyes are bloodshot. Your frail arms are trembling. "I'm so in love with you, Ryan."
My lips part, my tongue freezes. "I love you-"
"No..." you cry. God, I can't stand to see you cry. "You were never in love with me."
And with those words, we quit speaking. Our words are useless from here on out. Because just like my temper, my veins are sending me signals and they're heading toward ditches and dead ends. You have been right all along. I begin to cry too, and what a sight we must be. Being the perfect couple we are. Match made in heaven. Love at first sight. Or lust. Whatever works at the time. What the hell is "living in the moment" if you consistently follow overused phrases? Living in the moment. That's what, hypocrite.
You raise your hand that I once thought was glued to the bed, and you wipe away the tears off your skin like maple butter. Your eyes like caramel. Your lips like morphine. I took way too many servings, and this is what we get. Those eyes stare at the ceiling fan spinning in circles and triangles and squares. Just depends on how you look at it. Those lips part suddenly, and those eyes are sadder than any acoustic song or funeral march. You inhale some breath like toxic powder and you say, "I've been sleeping with Shaant Hacikyan."
Words can't explain...how much I saw this coming. But I'm still crying harder, and that's what hurts. When you roll your head slowly onto your shoulder and our eyes meet, it's like it was the first time we met. If "met" is even the right word. I remember the way you scared the shit out of me and yet it felt so good. Everything about William Beckett just...felt so good.
But still, you gulp and say ominously, "Your turn."
And that's when it all ends. The world, it falls apart at my feet. Melodrama has always been my thing, and when the surgeons enter the room in their turquoise scrubs and white masks, they whisk me away, and melodrama is an understatement. This whole thing, all of it, has been an understatement.
Being ushered out of the room and being forced to look in through the observing window to your room, I can just barely see you between the shoulders of surgeons. The nurses playing with their shiny tools. And you, you're crying so hard. The nurses have all got the wrong idea. One of them is running her hands through your pretty hair and I know she's probably consoling you about the operation. As much as I know you're not mine anymore, I'd give anything for her to get her overly-sterile hands off your perfectly beautiful and greasy hair. She doesn't know you. She doesn't have the slightest idea that you like boys, not girls. She doesn't have the slightest idea that you just broke my heart. Or I just broke yours.
She just doesn't know.
Or is it me that doesn't know?
All I know is the glass in front of my nose is fogged from my heavy breathing, my thick tears. I cry against the window harder and harder and Pete and Brendon know better than to come help me. I can scarcely see the operating table hovering over parts of your body and the surgeons assembling their gloves in that horror-film way.
Under white lights you lay.
The world blurs. I know I'll never have you again. I know I'll never feel your body against mine as close as it used to be. No matter how hard we try, and no matter how many times we start over, we'll never be close enough. We'll never kiss with the same passion. No more little arguments, no more warm, sloppy kisses after the alarm clock goes off.
You'd think since we both messed up...we'd both be able to give it another shot, right? Oh, I could only dream of it working out that way. No... you will see this as a cleansing, and I will see this as a new chapter. It's just the way our minds think. And unfortunately, that's all that ever mattered. When it should have been the way our hearts beat.
This isn't like us anyway.
>>>
THANK YOU to everyone's gracious encouragement through this series. QBC especially<3 Love you kids.
I love you. William Beckett loves you.
Gnight, Sweet Talk 101. Goodmornin, Faces In The Hall =]] Check it out.
