Sander and Robbe, Minute by Minute

Everything I Do is Chernobyl

Sander had been sitting there, on his sleeping bag, staring at the pictures around him. The darkness was creeping closer again, slowly, watching him eyelessly. Sander had grabbed on the only thing that comforted him, a light that kept the shadow at bay. He had torn off all the pages of Robbe from his sketchbooks and put them up on the walls and door. The boy with soft black eyes, a little sad, with a kind of loneliness hiding under the surface. But who could smile so genuinely, unquestioning, a smile that touched your heart. Who could laughed with that ring in his voice, a joy so pure, like a child, sweet, laced in wonder; it rose and fell in vivid colors, rich, mesmerizing. The melody flowed in harmony with the world, sang to him, wiping away the clouds with its glow. When he laughed with him, he felt like a hand had reached out and took his in theirs. The light was dim now, but it's all he had, so Sander kept it with him.

*

Voices. Obscure, drifting from below. Vague noises, thumping, murmurs through the walls. Sander looked up from the page he was drawing. It must be morning, the classes would started soon. It didn't matter, the noises were low enough to be ignored. Meds, I have to take my meds. He got up, unwrapped a sandwich that he bought, it was the only thing he ate after the croque yesterday. He was not hungry, again, but he forced it down and took his dose. He had to get out and got more food and water at some point, or left. He couldn't be bother. Later, he would bothered about it later. He went back to the desk. Sander had woken up from a slumber last night and unable to sleep again. He had started painting after that, or more like brushing black across white pages. At one point, he poured an entire bottle of black onto a sketch, his hand moved, following his thoughts. He put these up on the wall too. Then he had stared at Robbe, and some time later there had been new pages of silver moon, of blue and yellow with shadows peeping at the edges.

He looked back down at the paper in front of him. It was a memory. Their first kiss. Sander had been drawing their story from the first time they met. There was a kind of persistence to put all of it onto papers; physical, tangible, immortal. His fingers were slow, but everything was clear in his mind, still vivid, so he took his time. Time passed and he put them up one by one. The supermarket, feeding Robbe a croque, their tunnel race, Robbe stroking his hair, carrying Robbe on his back, sleeping next to him. The darkness was there, watching from a short distance away, almost in amusement, but they didn't come closer. Robbe filled him and he stayed with him.

*

He checked inside him. Four? Six? Three? Stupid scale. Sander turned on his phone, it's after eleven in the morning. Lots of voicemails. His mom mostly, asking where he was and to just call back or came home. There was a couple from Britt. They sounded worried, or maybe Sander just wanted to think that they were. There was a voicemail from Robbe. Sander's finger hovered for a second. He pressed on it and listened to that voice: Sander, what you said, it's not true. There is something between us. A beat. A soft, trembling voice: I love you, Sander. Please, just call me as soon as you get this, okay?

Sander listened to the message again a couple of times, just to drink in the sound of his voice. Did he know that he check out from the hospital? Did he go there to talk to him? Doesn't matter. Sander had let go of him. He thought of his mom. I had made her worried, again. He should called her and apologized. Felt like that was all his life about, apologizing. Would the word still has its meaning if you kept saying it? There were times when he said them because he knew he should, without even feeling it. Sometimes he was not sure what he apologized for. The guilt and self-hatred would added another layers then. His mom's shocked face flashed again in his head. Everything he said to her in the past. Maybe his mom just stay because she thought she should, like an obligation. Maybe she already considered leaving him. Is it possible to unlove your child? He would hurt her again, over and over. And the shame, the shame and the guilt.