His heartbeat marked the hours before his mom arrived- and when she arrived- she cried. Looking down to his body, her hands ready to touch him- but couldn't.
We walked out the room to give her privacy- I picked up my stuff and got them into my room. Fuck.
I sat on the freshly made bed, and took out my camera- laid down and went through the picture I took of him. All the goofy faces he made, combined with the memories I had.
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"That's not funny Peep, get out" I say approaching the coffin he was laying in.
"I'm not trying to make you laugh, one day I'll be laying in one of these- so take a picture before I go"
For a good five minutes I refused to do such a thing.
"Yes". "no". "yes". "No, I'm not- so get your ass outta there"
But eventually, I decided to take the pictures and I never told him. I deleted that shit and set my camera down.
I looked at the ceiling and waited for a knock on my door, hoping that it would be Peep- to tell me all this was a cruel joke. But this was real- hearing his heart beat- continuously in the room beside me- remembering the day I was being interviewed- and the lady asking if I could handle all of this.
When in fact- now that I'm here- I don't think I could....
In that moment, I realized that I was immensely involved with an addict, and I didn't want to leave- even if my contract said I could. I had to stay, even if that puts me in danger.
