His Words (bxb)

chapter fifteen

Sunday, September 27, 2020

✧elijah✧

37 hours.

It's been 37 hours since I saw Noah's body being carried away from me in a stretcher. And in less than 20 minutes, I will be seeing him again. Alive and breathing this time.

My hands sit in my lap, fingers fidgeting, as Mom drives us over to the hospital Noah is staying in. After getting a call from the hospital saying that Noah is finally awake, she drove to school and pulled me out of a class I wasn't even paying any attention to and we hurriedly started making our way to the hospital.

I don't even know what to say to Noah when I see him again. I'm upset. I'm confused. I'm hurt. But I'm also mad. Why didn't he call me? Send me a text? He wasn't even about to leave a note. He was just going to leave, even after promising me he would stay. Besides seeing him again so this silly heart of mine can rest and my mind can be assured, I'm not too sure what I'll do when we get there.

I'm too deep in thought to notice the car slow to a stop as Mom parks it in front of the hospital. Her warm hand is placed on my shoulder and I turn my head to look at her and give her the most genuine smile I can muster. She nods and smiles as her grip tightens on my shoulder before wordlessly opening the door and getting out of the car. I follow right after her.

My mom and I haven't had a proper conversation since that night. She tried speaking to me on the first night when we got back home from the hospital, but I had forced my mind to shut down to prevent my thoughts from spiralling, so all I did was nod as she went on and on. The second time she talked to me was after school on the second day after Noah's hospitalization. She took me into her office and tried to therapize me, talking to me like she would to a patient. I didn't appreciate that, though I understood she was only trying to help, and stormed out of the room. It's been silent at the Becketts' home since then.

We approach the receptionist, who, at this stage, already knows who we are and who we're visiting, and she immediately nods with a smile as she points us in the direction of the ICU. The halls get narrower as we grow closer. The sounds of the hospital are dim and the sounds of my footsteps echo in my ears. My breathing grows rapid as we get closer and closer to his room.

Suddenly, I'm standing in front of a wooden door with the number 128 in white. I try to calm myself before stepping inside and accidentally hear the conversation taking place in the room. I recognize the first voice as Dr. Evans', but have a hard time identifying the second voice. It's low and raspy and sounds nothing like Noah's usual sweet, melodic voice that I have grown to love hearing first thing in the morning.

My mom approaches the room and places a hand on my shoulder, helping me calm down enough to finally open this damn door and see Noah again. And I do.

He looks awful. His skin is almost as pale as the night we found him. His cheeks are hollow and his eye-bags hang low, tinted in dark hues of blue and black. His lips are thin and chapped, unlike the plump, red lips I have gotten so addicted to kissing. His blonde hair lost it's shine and sits limply on top of his head. He has needles sticking out in each and every direction, some connected to IV bags and feeding formulas, others to the various machines surrounding him.

The wave of reality hits me all at once. All the thoughts I tried to keep away since Friday night, the undeniable facts I tried to invalidate flood my brain. Noah is here because he tried to kill himself. His dad raped him. He has at least two severe eating disorders and many more mental disorders. He has been abused for years. He hurts himself. He starves himself. That's why he's here. That's why this is all happening.

And there's nothing you can do to help.

Mom must have noticed my panic and gives me a short squeeze with the hand that is still resting on my shoulder. She moves her hand lower to caress my back. After a few moments, I am finally collected enough to speak up.