the day after tomorrow

will you know me?

I can hear her. Not see her, not quite yet. I can't really move in then state I'm in. There's bandages on my arms, thick, probably white ones, the ones you see in all of the films, or read in books. I don't think I'm ready to face Bebe yet. I don't think I'll be able to look her in the eyes, especially after what I said, or wrote, I suppose. I don't want her to look into my eyes, knowing that she knows I love her. That I am hopelessly in love with the one girl I'll never be able to have. My perfect Bebe, probably ugly crying over my unmoving body, looking at the tubes and wires coming out of it. She won't be able to get over this. Maybe, if I'm lucky, she never got the letter. She'll never know the pain that tore through me as I saw these men stare at her, strip her with their evil fucking eyes, scouring the places I could only dream of placing soft, delicate kisses on. I couldn't believe the way she would let them do this to her, if not encourage it. It was unfathomable to me. Bebe reached her hand out to mine, intertwining her perfect manicured fingers with my cold, almost lifeless ones. She was everything. And I was simply a friend.

I stared at her, in disbelief that Wendy, my Wendy, was trapped in these gauze-covered cages, knowing I'll never be able to look at her without seeing the red, angry lines that now contrast with her perfect skin. I keep telling myself she'll wake up, so I don't have to keep dotting her sheets with my ugly tears. If she's conscious, she could hear my disgusting clenches and sobs of my aching chest. I've been writing about her, cycling through the things she's said, the things she didn't. I've been drinking again. I keep telling myself I won't relapse, again and again, but I inevitably wake up hungover and hating myself. I don't think it's right that I'm doing this. This should be about Wendy. I shouldn't burden the world with my problems because clearly doesn't give a shit. Neither should I, but I keep drowning myself in liquor, craving the warmth that blossoms from the absurd amounts of "liquid courage" I've been drinking. Courage is what I need to face Wendy everyday, after all.

After the letter, I've had to hold myself back from coming here, but I finally gave in. It's been a little over a week since she attempted. I still can't believe it. This is not the dreamy, rom-com reunion I wanted. I want to just plant a kiss on her lips, make it to where my little lipstick marks bring her back to me. I give her a quick peck, just to make sure, but it doesn't work. Maybe I should try again? I don't know, the hospital smell is kind of giving me a headache. I look down at her, once more, seeing the Beret Girl I grew up with flicker through her frozen face. I see the lashes I've picked off her face, countless wishes that never came true. I see the giggles and sly looks from across the classroom, the times before they were directed at me. I quickly come to a halt as the monitors start beeping. Shit. I better get out of here.

I jolt awake, trying to search for Bebe, but my throats hoarse and can only let out a squeaky, muffled screech, barely audible, even to my own ears. The hospital staff comes flooding in, shoving each other, toppling over colleagues to try and reach me. One of them gets to me, and I get pinned down before I can rip my IV out. I think I've lost enough blood anyways. They say I have to stay in here for a few more days, as they have to "monitor my condition" I think they just want even more of our money. I'm not rich, by any means. My parents aren't either. Speaking of my parents, they rushed in a few minutes later. I guess they used the toll way for once. I wondered where Janet was. She wasn't usually the one to skip big family events. If you could call this that. I think she was the one to find me. The idea of poor Janet finding her only big sister bleeding out, with shattered bottles all around, makes me sad. But it makes sense. She was always the responsible one. I just don't want to put this burden on her. It's not her fault I was born awful.

They start hugging me. It feels strange, to feel their affection. I'm not exactly used to it. The rest of the day was a blur. I was pulled in and out of doorways and rooms, and eventually made my way into our car. I suppose my family is good at arguing, I would know. I was glad I got to go home though, I needed a nap. I know I had just slept for basically a week, but I was conscious for most of it. The car ride home was quiet. My mom, and dad, were uncomfortable I think. My mom had the beginnings of tears in her eyes, but I'm not usually the best at picking up on that stuff. I was sure they would ground me soon, because in the note, I gave them oodles of reasons. But I'm sure they'd pretend to care for at least a couple of weeks. I didn't know that they would wait on my every need, just so I didn't attempt again. My dad was trying not to cry, which was a first for him. They both are shit at not talking, so the quiet was not present for very long. Eventually my mom started to make small talk, as if I hadn't just stabbed myself. "I've never been in a coma, how was it? You lost weight, maybe I could try being comatose for a while too, I've been needing to drop a few pounds." My mouth dropped open. "I don't know. I guess you needed to drop weight, I'm sure your doctor will be ecstatic."

I don't think I'll see Bebe until tomorrow. Maybe I'll text her. (In this part quotes are "messages") "hey B, I'm alive. hopefully not for long(jkjk) sorry, too soon" "Hey Wendy. I'm glad ur alive. I read your letter. It was...insightful." Oh shit. Does she not like me back? Did I do something wrong? "Uh, hate to say it, but I forgot more than half of the shit I wrote in there. I was high for most of it lmao" Does she believe me? I think I may have called her a bitch a few times, or maybe something worse? I really don't know. I honestly don't think I want to. "I'm not surprised. I could send it back to you? I have a few things I'd like to add, a few 'adjustments' " "sure(?) Sounds good" I'm really fucking scared. What if she hates me now? What if she never wants to see me again? Even worse, what if she actually likes me? What if I wasted all of my time pining over her when I could've just asked?