As long as an alarm doesn’t ring, it’s okay. As long as the doctors and nurses coming in and out aren’t panicking, it’s okay.
If anybody thinks it’s odd that there’s a man in a wheelchair just sitting in the hallway, they don’t say anything. The nurses have stopped asking him if he needs anything. He does – he needs a million things, none of which they can give him. He needs Maxie to walk out of that room happy and healthy and herself and not…not the way she is now, too awful for Spinelli to look at without every inch of his body humming with a regret so deep and profound he can’t breathe, can’t blink.
Instead he’s parked in the hallway in front of Maxie’s room, a lone highwayman, staring at her door. He doesn’t close his eyes because he doesn’t want to miss anything, but he listens extra hard, trying to hear over the sound of his own thumping heart and sometimes he thinks he can catch the rhythm of the machines in there. He probably can’t hear them, not through the door, not in a bustling hospital, but he has to do something.
His whole life (admittedly not a very long life, so far) he’d felt alone and out of place, waiting for something that he didn’t consciously dare to let himself hope for, and then one day, after it had been creeping on him slowly, so slowly – he found it. It. Her. The most beautiful girl he’d ever laid eyes on. And then she died because of him.
That’s all Spinelli can think of, thoughts all jumbled in terror and guilt and horror, that he was an idiot – such an idiot and now she’ll be dead for it.
Although Spinelli breathes deep and slow to keep himself from crying where everybody can see, parts of him are numb like they’re not getting enough oxygen. Or maybe they’re just caught up in a phantom touch – the way Maxie’s lip felt pulled up into a smile when he pressed his thumb to her mouth, the way her fingers felt curled around his (so often the last thing he could feel before drifting off to sleep)
Maxie is the one who always talks about self- destruction, but it’s his game now. This is getting the best thing he’s ever had and squeezing it until it shattered into little bits, teeny tiny shards stabbing at him every time he moved.
He’s thinking of a flower waiting to bloom for a girl who might never see it, of leaving this place and having nothing to look forward to. He’s thinking of the ache in his leg that he deserves (that and so much more), and having to visit two graves a year instead of just one, right next to each other. If he cries he might never stop, not ever, so he doesn’t. The wet burns in his eyes and his face feels hot but it’s good in a way, distracting, to just concentrate on that.
Feeling so alone in a place with so many people isn’t strange to him. There’s only one person here who knows him and if she doesn’t wake up then he only hopes her last dreams were good ones. (if she doesn’t wake up then it will be all his fault)
“Maxie…” he thinks and it’s as coherent as he can make himself, something awful bubbling in his throat like he might scream.
A million people and not one who looks at him and actually sees him. A whole list of contacts in his cell phone and not a message, not anything. Not a single person to look at him and say…and say...
And say it’s going to be alright. Or it’s okay to cry. Or Maxie loves you. Anything, anything, he just needs somebody to tell him the world isn’t actually crashing down around his ears, somebody to drag him outside so he can throw himself to the ground and howl. Somebody to buy him a drink so he can maybe blink twice without thinking about how long Maxie must have shivered before he’d noticed.
Or somebody, anybody to...hold his hand and let him lean against them for just a second, just one small second so that he can feel like he isn’t the loneliest, stupidest, last person left in his own world.
Tags: damian spinelli
Current Mood: amused
Current Music: Rockit, Gorillaz