Sander and Robbe, Minute by Minute

The Face of Death

When the nurse came to check his vital and giving him his meds, Sander was already wide-awake. He hadn't slept at all, the breathing technique didn't work, nothing worked. The nurse presence irritated him, he wanted to snap at him. He waited impatiently for him to leave. He looked at his surrounding, and felt sick to his stomach. His skin crawled, he needed to get out from there. After forcing the breakfast down his throat, he went to the administration desk and filled the check out form. His mom was coming tomorrow and Sander simply couldn't see her, not like this. It would took 24 hours for processing, so he would left tomorrow morning. It was just formality, they couldn't really hold you inside if you had voluntarily checked in, and his condition didn't warrant a detain.

Sander walked to the recreation room. He asked for some tools, sat down and opened his sketchbook. Chatters. Sound of chairs being dragged on the floor. Scratches. Pages being flipped. Thud thud. Chess pieces across the board. Sander looked up at the ceiling. The light was bright and emitted small aggravating noises. Sweat, coughs. When he couldn't had it anymore, he went back to his room. Some time later, there was a call from Robbe; Sander didn't answer it. He called again once, and Sander didn't pick it up. The sound of doors opening and closing was getting on his nerves. Why the stupid 24 hours? Maybe I should just break out. Sander dozed on and off, eating mechanically, drawing, waiting. The place was driving him mad, then again he was already mad, wasn't he? This was not good, Sander knew it. When was the last time I saw the sky? Is it still there? Nurse again, pills, light out.

*

Sander took a long breath outside. Crisp, the sun was dim and the sky was a little bit cloudy but he stared at it for a long time. He started walking, stirred far from people, the smells of fresh coffee and cinnamon drifted from the shops. He turned away disinterestedly. He wandered into a quiet park and sat down on a bench. A mother and two children were playing around with pigeons, laughing. People drinking, reading newspaper, chatting. The trees rippled, toying with the breeze and birds. Sander checked inside him. Five? Six? Two? He was not sure anymore. At least his skin had stopped crawling. He got up and walked again.

At one point, he found himself sitting on the low grey wall over the river. Sander stared at the tall buildings across. There were not too many people, walking passed, but it was mostly quiet. He ran his fingers over the surface of the wall and looked at the dusts gathered there. He took his phone out and sent a text to his mom: Outside, don't worry, it will be fine.

He turned off his phone. Better to stay away from everyone. The river flowed. With or without him, would the world be any different? Or would it be better? For his mom maybe? Would anyone miss him? Time drifted by, unhurriedly. He stood up and stared at the water. It was greyish, moody like the sky, the current was quite strong. He wondered what it was like to be a part of it. Cold? Peaceful? Nothing? The cool wind whipped at his jacket. He remembered that night, two years ago, standing on different wall, staring at the dark surface of the water. Felt like yesterday.

Images of his life surged through his mind. Some of them glared bright, some just flashes of colors, the others zoomed in details, rich in smells and textures. He let them rolling, unfurling in front of his eyes. He recalled that day when he woke up and found only his mom in the kitchen. His mom's forlorn eyes, assuring smiles, days waiting, not understanding, angry tantrums, confused incosolable grief, the impotent acceptance of a child. Moving forward with his life. The presence of mood swings seeping, like a mantle of dark and light that sometimes came visiting and dropped over his shoulders. The mess, one after the others, the rejections, the feeling of being isolated, pushing people away, hurting them, losing them, the rage. Mood swings that getting worse. His grandmother's death. His first encounter with the face of death, the abruptness of something to nothing. That night after the funeral, he stood there, over the river, lost in thoughts, the black glassy surface was waving at him, like a stranger, but also a friend, whispering softly. He went home that night and told his mom about his condition that getting worse. He didn't tell her about the river. Months and months of therapy, tests, medications, trials and errors, and the diagnose after: Bipolar I. Scrambling, the effort day by day, the comfort of art, his mom. Finding the ground again, the sense of himself, the bad and the good. The highs and lows. He saw them passed through. And he saw Robbe. Sander thought he understood love, before. When he met Robbe, he saw how he had only ever grazed the surface of its truth. The way the world gained new depth, so vibrant, breathtaking, like an unexpectant discovery. The world was grey now, bland, faceless.

The river continued rushing, timeless, indifferent. Sander stared at the rippling water, watching it moved, unbroken. He thought of the stormy ocean eyes of Dr Ava. You are strong Sander. You've been strong all these times. Don't forget that. Sander heard laughters in his head, that melody, like a spell. He stood there, listening. And then he looked up at the sky. It was clearer now, the sun was getting generous, blessing the world with its warmth beams. After a while, he stepped back down.

Sander went into a cafe, get some croques and orange juice. He looked at it for some minutes flatly, and then started eating slowly. He took his meds. After that, he went to a store, and grabbed a sleeping bag randomly, water bottles, and some other things. He went to the academy. Sander passed through the bike lot. And his mind went to that day, seeing Robbe's vulnerable face, Chernobyl and the kisses, him stumbling sheepishly. After some moment, he walked away. There was a back door, easily managed. The studio was not locked, he took some tools and went upstairs. There were some unused empty rooms at the back. People rarely went there. He chose the farthest one, there was a desk, rusted easel, and he dragged some chairs, and a small table. It wouldn't work for long, someone would probably found him eventually, cleaners or students, but for now it should be fine. He hardly cared either way. He just wanted some quiet, alone, away from everyone, just some time. He settled down.