|
Post by Gabe Saporta on May 11, 2011 2:50:32 GMT -5
I felt my heart drop to my stomach, beating even faster than before. And suddenly everything was quiet again, other than the quiet breaths we emitted. I pulled him tight against me, slightly running my fingers through his hair. I wanted to keep him forever, or have him keep me, or run away together. Too many ideas at once, but they'd all happen someday.
|
|
|
Post by William Beckett on May 11, 2011 5:04:13 GMT -5
I couldn't understand what the acceptable response would be. I just held onto him, because it was what felt right. The nurses were beginning to search for us- I figured one of us was meant to be in group by now- but it didn't matter, because I could hold him.
|
|
|
Post by Gabe Saporta on May 12, 2011 4:35:36 GMT -5
I heard the familiar plat-plat of nurses shoes on linoleum and I pulled in a sharp breath. My grip on him staying just as tight as before, and I closed my eyes to pretend that maybe he wasn't about to disapear...because if he disapeared I'd have to too.
|
|
|
Post by William Beckett on May 12, 2011 5:07:47 GMT -5
She called out to me. Told me where I was meant to be. I clung to him and gave no response. I watched her forced smile faulter, watched her begin to crumble as the two of us held onto eachother, in silence. At last she cracked and told me, "Gabriel can come, if you'd like."
|
|
|
Post by Gabe Saporta on May 13, 2011 4:08:30 GMT -5
My eyes widened breifly, I'd never had a nurse act logically or most of all kindly. "Yes." I said, and my throat felt dry. I reached up and took one of his hand's in my own, squeezing to assure I wouldn't let go.
|
|
|
Post by William Beckett on May 13, 2011 4:23:36 GMT -5
The nurse walked behind us as we strolled down the hall. Her eyes were heavy on our backs, but his touch made me feel light as ever.
|
|
|
Post by Gabe Saporta on May 14, 2011 6:40:46 GMT -5
My meds were wearing off again, they did faster and faster these days. Quiet whispers hung in the air as I walked with him and the nurse, wondering if he had the same therapist. Porbably not though, the staff switched around every other day of the week.
|
|
|
Post by William Beckett on May 14, 2011 9:05:47 GMT -5
Group therapy is a painful bath of lies. We're expected to make eachother feel better, and to share our stories. My unbroken silence had never helped matters; I was forced to hear it all. As I took my regular seat, and the nurse pulled forward another seat for Gabriel, it had already begun. "But you've seemed so much better!" "You're perfect the way you are, you know," It was like listening to a self-help tape on repeat. I gripped his hand as tight as ever.
|
|
|
Post by Gabe Saporta on May 14, 2011 20:11:33 GMT -5
I tended to tune out group sessions. People bitching about their problems didn't help my own, and I'd sit there and usually count tiles, or watch the ticking clock. When I shared, I told the same story about breaking all the mirrors at my old apartment until it started to sound like someone elses story. All of this being irrelevant as to right now, as I sat and stared intently at his hand in mine. I wanted to refer to him as William, but he felt too quiet to even have a name.
|
|
|
Post by William Beckett on May 15, 2011 2:10:53 GMT -5
When they spoke to my Christofer, they called him Gabriel. I winced every time. It was almost as if I was holding another person's hand. As if the boy beside me wasn't the one I'd so quickly fallen for. It wasn't my angel. I almost wanted to scream.
|
|
|
Post by Gabe Saporta on May 24, 2011 5:26:00 GMT -5
I saw him tense everytime i was spoken to, and it made me flinch. I didn't want him to be upset, not ever. When they were done with me I reached out and pulled his hand into mine, trying on a smile and daring anyone to contradict it.
|
|
|
Post by William Beckett on May 24, 2011 5:58:57 GMT -5
They addressed me, eventually. If not for him, I probably would have forgotten my name long ago. No one used it but the nurses. When they called upon me, I looked up. They tried to get me to speak out, to talk about this place, or why I'm here. I just squeezed his hand, turned to face his smile.
|
|
|
Post by Gabe Saporta on May 25, 2011 4:21:22 GMT -5
I wanted to tell him to say something about me, just to hear him speak, just to head about myself I don't know. I just smiled though, at him, not bothering with anything else in the world but to make sure he knew I was there.
|
|
|
Post by William Beckett on May 25, 2011 4:51:39 GMT -5
I was hoping the squeeze of his hand, the longing look in my eyes, I was hoping that would be enough for the psychs, nurses and patients alike to understand that, for now, I was happy. He was keeping me sane, or as close to it as I got.
|
|
|
Post by Gabe Saporta on Jun 2, 2011 5:49:00 GMT -5
They moved on to another patient, another person that wouldn't ever be fixed, and I felt him relax. Just a sliver of muscle tension fade in his grip on my hand, and I let myself relax too. We were good for each other, great even, and sometimes he's all that fills up my head.
|
|