Gush

How can I tell him that it will be all right? How can I look into those broken eyes and tell him that life will move on? He has lost everything he had in a single shot. His heart is lying out in the open and what I say to him now is crucial. I cannot lie. Can't tell him that it will stop hurting, can't tell him that one day he'll look back and laugh at his sorrow. Because I know he won't. There is too much blood here, too much hope and lost dreams. As much as I want to be here to support him, I wish myself far away from this scene.

The room is only half his now. Before they shared it together, but his new roommate will not be as sharing. We are in the same place we were in when they came in and told us. Two of the younger ones with tears in their eyes, reciting the story that had only just been poured out to them by a sobbing teacher.

The floor is wooden and unforgiving beneath our backs. The book we were reading from still lies open, but the words seem to be running together and not making any sense. His side of the room is neat while the other is strewn with props, books and clothes. Absently, I wonder who will take these things. People will come and take this or that, some in memory and some to steal. Slowly and steadily a life will be unraveled until even the sheets on the bed and the posters on the wall are taken down and replaced so some newbie can move in and take his place.

' Oh, God." He chokes out. I turn abruptly. Tears are in his eyes, now that the truth has sunken in. " Oh,God."

I take hold of his hand and squeeze for all I'm worth. He doesn't react. There is nothing else for me to do. I realize now that I can't say anything. It would be a cliché or something horrible and stiff. There is nothing I can mouth off that will make him feel any less decrepit and to spoil my silent support would be to rob him of his mourning.

"Oh, God. " A sob bites off the end of his plea and I put my arms around him as tears fall down his face. I hold him as close as I can. I can feel the sobs wrack his body and make him quake all through. We sit like that for what seems like hours before he stands up and walks into the hallway. I follow him only as far as the door. Something warns me to stray no further.

"How are you?" One boy intercepts in the hall to be compassionate, I immediately dub him Idiot.

" I'm falling apart." He seems to answer from that beyond place he goes when he writes his poetry.

" Be strong. He'd want us to stay strong." That makes me want to scream. Doesn't Idiot know how much they meant to each other? Can't this Idiot feel the pain waving off of a suddenly lost soul? Us to be strong? The dead man was closer to him then he was to anyone in the world.

Which is when I remember that I was am the only one who knows that they were that close. That they shared something more intimate then being roommates. At an all boys school these things aren't talked about. Not if you want to survive. Which makes me wonder why I know.

" Toby was a great guy, we'll all miss him." The idiot says as my friend starts to walk away. " Thomas! Where are you going?"

" For a walk. I need to clear my head." Translation: Somewhere private where I can cry. The idiot doesn't get the translated version. He doesn't even realize there's something to be translated.

I don't leave the room until Thomas comes back and when he does I still say nothing. He doesn't seem to register my presence, but then again he doesn't seem aware of anything.

He stumbles in and takes off his snow filled coat, lays it on the back of the chair near the radiator. In this New England school, every room is fitted with a small fire place for the winter, I hope he won't try and light it. Better to be a little cold then burnt to a crisp. As if reading my thoughts he sits on the radiator to warm himself. After a few moments he gets up and begins to strip down for bed. It takes him a long time, he seems easily deterred and his movements are slow and awkward. Eventually, he is down to his boxers and goes over to his dresser to get a sweater for the night. I know his night rituals like they were my own and I can tell that it is only habit that brings him to put on something warm. Otherwise, he might just sleep like that and freeze.

A strange thing happens when he gets to the formidable wooden dresser. He turns and goes to the one next to it. Slowly, almost reverently, he opens the top drawer and removes a pair of flannel pants and light sweatshirt. He buries his face in the sweatshirt which is navy blue and the saying in stark white embezzled across it: Sanity is in the eye of the beholder.

I can't see the saying from here, but I know it well. It sticks in my head, but I cannot pinpoint when I saw it last. The boys wear uniforms here. Only sleeping clothes are causal and self-expressing. Confusion freezes me for a moment, but the sharp inhalation of breath causes me to look up.

Its just Thomas. He's trying not to cry. With the same care he used to take the clothes out, he puts them on. They are too big on him and he looks a little ridiculous, only his red puffed up eyes keep me from laughing. His beautiful crystal blue eyes blood shot, his crop of black hair mussed in all directions and his face still in that odd transition between man and boy is pulled with grotesque sorrow. This is a scene to pity not to make a mockery of. Thomas climbs into bed as if he will break if he moves too quickly.

I listen to him cry himself into a nightmarish sleep. As he thrashes in his bed from crazed dreams, I lay a hand on his sweating forehead. That seems to soothe him. Whenever I take my hand off he starts to move about again, so I stay like that for the rest of the night, my hand on his head. In the morning I don't feel cramped at all and I'm not tired. It seems I'm in a sort of shock. When I rose I thought about checking my hair in the mirror. It was a small hand mirror on the top of Thomas' dresser. Finally, though I decided against it. To hell with vanity when Thomas was in such pain.

Thomas and the others were given the day off to mourn. No teacher would have been able to hold a class anyway. It seemed every student was affected. Stories were shared and friends consoled each other, some prayed.

To my immense shame and anger, the reverence didn't last. Soon gossip filter through the halls about what had happened. Some believed he had been murdered, that the ladder from which he had fallen was purposely greased by a homicidal maniac. Others, thought that it might be suicide,he had jumped from such a height in a moment of despair. Still others thought he might have been drunk or high and leapt thinking he could fly.

Thomas stayed in the room he once shared and so there I stayed too. I heard the rumors come floating down as if from the heavens. The wall conducting the whispers from the hall and the pipes led the noise of hushed conversation from the other rooms. Thomas ignored it all, sat in the chair by the desk, turning around to face my perch on the window sill. We didn't speak. I'm not sure he knows I'm here. There is a glazed look in his eyes as he stares just a little beyond my shoulder. Maybe my mere presence is enough.

" Toby?" He says suddenly. I start, nearly falling off the sill. Thomas is turned to me and I start to respond. " I miss you, man." He says.

I realize that he isn't talking to me at all. He is looking out the window behind me. I let him ramble, actually glad he isn't acknowledging me. That way I don't have to deal with his grief.

" You were everything. I never appreciated you enough. Never told you that I needed you there all the time just to breath. I never thought...." He faltered for instant gulping down another sob. " I never thought that you would be the first of us to go. You had the life, that spark. Everyone felt it. You remember the time you failed the English test? I helped you cram all that night for the make over. When you got a hundred everyone in the hallway cheered for you while I stood in the back round.

" That's the way it was. That's the way it should be. I need someone to stand behind. Not confident enough you always used to say. Maybe. All I know is that I was happier in your shadow then I had been in all the years I stood alone."

It should have struck me as an odd way to feel, but I could never think of Thomas as odd. I knew his every word to be true. He lived to be the man in the background. Lived to know that his work was pushing someone forward. Only person I ever met who wanted nothing for himself, but to be loved. I stopped that train of thought when I realized Thomas was speaking again.

" That was the first night. The first time we really spent time together. None of that fake bonding crap we went through the first six months. We just talked and I told you about my parents. You were the first and only one to hear about them. Did I ever tell you that? I think you guessed. After I finished you were so livid you wrote a letter to them, cursing them and damning them. You even stamped it and told me one day that I should mail it. I never did. I still have it in the top desk drawer. You guessed that too I suppose."

He fell silent again. Why did these memories strike so deep? Of course, Thomas had told me about them. But, didn't he say he never told anyone of his parents? Things slowly began to click into place for me. Dread sat dead in my stomach. I walked over to Thomas and waved my hand in front of his face. Nothing. I screamed in his ear. Nothing.

With apprehension I walked to the desk and picked up the mirror. Or tried too. It wouldn't come up. I felt it in my hand, but I couldn't get my fingers under it to lift it. The fear in my stomach solidified as leaned over the top of the dresser to see my face.

It did not appear. There was no reflection. I breathed on the surface. No fog or gentle mist appeared. I slammed my hand down hard on the dresser. It didn't hurt, nothing stirred.

" Toby." a harsh whisper came from behind. I started again. This time realizing it was not from surprise, but from recognition. How many times had I heard the same name trip from his lips? Caressing that simple name into life or flinging it about in frustration and anger.

" Thomas." I replied knowing he couldn't hear me, yet knowing that in a way he might listen.

" Toby, why the fuck did you leave me?"

" It wasn't on purpose, man. Believe you me." I kneeled down next to him and his gaze shifted from the window to the floor in front of me.

" We had something good going here. It could have been great. Finished with this hell in four more months and then Yale and law school. Go through it together, then vanish. Change our names and move some where far away, start a practice. Us against them." He shook his head.

" Those were just ideas, man. You were always the one who shot them down. You're pretty rooted in reality for a poet." He still didn't hear me, but he paused when I spoke and seemed to respond to what I said.

" I never told you that I really held onto that dream. I did. I know I gave you a hard time about it, but at the time I thought that you would never hold to it. After all this is an all boys school. And we all know what happens with repressed hormones and all." Tears leaked out the corners of his eyes unheeded.

"I never would have left you, moron. And you knew it. Us against the world. It was the way it should be. Plus, if I recall we weren't exactly repressing any hormones." The lasciviousness in my voice seemed to reach him and he smiled vaguely.

" Then again we never did do much repressing." The smile faded. " I can't stay here. Every corner of this school is marked. I've got memories of every room. Late nights in the empty classrooms, early mornings in the courtyard, lunch break in the attic and during French class in the third story bathroom." The smile returned again, small and bitter.

" That was something! My only regret was that we only did it once. I remember having to put my hand in your mouth...."

" So I wouldn't scream." He finished off. " Toby?"

" Shit! Thomas!" I sat up and this time he followed the movement. " Thomas? Thomas, man! Can you hear me?"

" Just barely. Its a whisper. Are you a ghost?" There wasn't fear in his eyes just hope.

"I don't know. I think this is a limited window of time."

" Just hold on one more minute. I have to tell you."

" I love you, Thomas. You never stood in my shadow. You were always my equal." I kneeled between his legs and tried to touch his face.

" That was supposed to be my line." He touched my hand. " I've loved you forever." I leaned forward to kiss him, but I was tugged back.

" Toby? Toby?!" I reached out for him again and missed. " Toby!"

Someone was slapping my face lightly.

" Come on, Toby. We're all worried about you, ya big lug. Wake the hell up. The doctor said if you don't wake up soon there is a good chance you never will. And if you die on me I'll kill you."

I open my eyes and close them tight again against the light. I glance again and see a worried face peering down on me.

"How can you kill me if I'm already dead?" I choked out.

" You're awake!"

" I was asleep?" I tried to sit up, but a hand pushed me back down.

" You fell off a ladder and gave your skull a good crack. You've been pretty comatose for about three days. They let me out of school 'cause they said you should wake up around a familiar face."

" Mom and Dad?" I knew the answer before I asked.

"Are still stuck in some third world country with an unpronounceable name and only one airplane that can't seem to get started. They've called once every three hours."

" I'm glad you came." I said weakly.

" I should get the doctor." He got up to go, but I put a hand out to stop him.

" I need to tell you something before. I had a dream."

" Someone's already taken that line." He joked lightly. To his credit, he sat back down.

" I dreamed I was dead."

" That not funny, Toby." He pulled his hand away chilled.

" Am I laughing? I just want you to know, that what we have is important to me and I really do love you. I know that sometimes you don't believe that, but take it from me okay?"

" Sure, Toby." His voice was hoarse and I dared to open my eyes again. His eyes were bright and he rose quickly. " I have to get the doctor."

It was hours later, when the doctors and nurses were done clucking around me and had taken me out of Intensive Care to a more private room, that we got to be alone again. We just sat for a while in a strained silence. I was half sitting up in a sterilized white hospital bed and he was in one of those cold plastic chairs.

" Toby?" he asked eventually.

" Yes?" I looked over at him.

" What you said before..."

" I'm sorry, I shouldn't have. It must have weirded you out. I think it was the coma. You know brain swelling and all."

"Oh." He looked sort of crushed for a minute.

" What were you going to say? I promise I won't laugh."

" Its just that..." He looked out the window and suddenly spoke all in a rush. " The way you were talking it sounded like in your dream we were more then just roomies. I heard you muttering too and I didn't catch all of it, but some of it was really strange."

" You're right. I dreamed we were more then just friends." I didn't know what to say. This was the real Thomas, not the dream Thomas my strangling brain had cooked up to keep me sane while trapped in my own head. This wasn't the Thomas, who I had shared with so intimately. Or was it? Perhaps, the dream Thomas was a projection of things to come or things I wanted to come. It was a strange new thought and one I wanted time to think about.

"Then what were we?" He was focused all on me, now. His eyes were not puffed and red like dream Thomas, they were clear blue.

" You know." I suddenly felt perversely secretive, wanting to keep the reality I had created to myself and not share it with him. It would only be crushed and right now I needed it. Even if I couldn't explain why.

" Yeah, I guess I always have." He got up, walked over and then sat hesitantly down on the edge of the bed. " I can't believe this. Only you could fuck me up this bad."

He leaned over just the slightest and kissed me. I leaned into it and it felt right, felt old and comfortable like we had done it for ages. When it was over, I was breathing heavy, still learning to breath by myself again.

"What now?" I asked finally.

" Well, we wait until you get out of here." A glint in his eyes gave me a shiver, one of the good kind. " So we can use the third story bath room for evil intentions."

" That sounds like fun. I should be comatose more often."

"Well, it does offer certain life changes, but I don't think I could handle doing it again."

I'm still not sure whether I dreamed us into reality or if I made reality my dream. It sometimes seems like we've always been like this and that my dream was merely an extension of our time together. Often, Thomas will say or do something that mimics exactly one of the false memories of my dream and I wonder if he’s just playing with my mind. That we really were together before my fall and some strange amnesia over took me. I can't even ask the others because we would never have told anyone else.

I know that sounds very paranoid and when I think of it for more then a few seconds it’s an instant headache. All in all, its best forgotten. I try and concentrate on the now. Which I do most of the time. Except, yesterday. It was another echo memory.

Thomas told me about his parents. Told me every grim detail and showed me some of the scars. I had seen them all before, but it never occurred to me that his father had created most of them. I went a little nuts and reeled off a letter to them telling them just where to go and stamped it. I was about to go and mail it when I stopped and looked at him. Those false memories came rushing back and I felt a dizzying sense of deja vu. His eyes pleaded with me and I shoved in the top drawer telling him to mail it, knowing he never will.

So, maybe the dream was something like a second chance before the first one happened. A helpful hint. I mostly just avoid ladders which makes Thomas happy and keeps me sane. Or whatever passes for it these days.

Oh, and one more thing. The third floor bathroom incident was just as fun the second (first?) time around.