by Thea Archer
I sank to my knees, and I stayed down, dazed, prostrated; a sob broke out from my lungs.
So that's what they call Hell, I suddenly realized. I woke up from the best dream I've ever had, and it was the most refined torture I could imagine.
I'm so happy I found out what it feels like to be loved.
I pictured his lovely, smiling face, and felt my whole being howling as if every cell of my body bursting.
I laid down on the floor, still sobbing, worthless, and wretched.
The desperation was gone — the helplessness ousted it. For the first time in twenty-seven years, I wanted to die.
Somehow, I found it much easier to accept my own death than this reality. My death turned out to be better than any reality I would see now. Fear had gotten the best of me at the thought that I'm going to carry all those unbearable memories with me for the rest of my miserable, meaningless life.
Phom rak khun, those odd words suddenly appeared in my mind, and I played them repeatedly in my head until I fell asleep.
23. MEETING POINT
As soon as I changed into a pair of sweats — somehow, I also managed to pull the t-shirt over my plastered arm — I came out of the hospital to remember the fresh air.
I woke up in the morning totally empty, perforated, lying on the floor of my ward almost naked, frozen, and exhausted, though, there was a plus — I barely felt anything. At least mentally. I was frigid, apathetic, and strangely calm.
The doctor said the walk would do me good, so I obeyed. Because I didn't really care — I guess I was the most amenable patient in the whole hospital — I would've put a rope around my neck if they say it would help me.
So I waddled into the garden outside the hospital and sat down on the bench under the shade apple trees right across the two-tiered fountain. The melodious accompaniment of flowing water was barely soothing though it didn't irritate me, either.
I closed my eyes and inhaled slowly through my nose, filling my aching lungs with begonias' scents.
My phone buzzed, and I looked at the screen idly. It was an unknown number; I sat still for a moment, resisting the urge to ignore the call, then I answered.
"Mr. Reinsch, my name's Felix Lesser. I represent the Axel Schoft Group Law firm," a male's voice said politely.
I sighed, waiting for him to say something else, though it held no interest for me.
"Your father contacted me the day after the accident about the rental car you were driving that day."
"Right, but I don't think that there was something wrong with the car, I just lost control — it was raining, and the tires hydroplaned," I said. "I really don't want to sue," I added earnestly.
"Well, that's not about the car rental company or your insurance..." He hesitated.
"Somebody want to sue me?" I asked impassively.
"On the contrary, I want to know if you want to sue the man who caused the accident."
I straightened up abruptly and gasped as the pain shot an agonizing jolt in my shoulder and spread across my thorax.
"Who... who caused it?" My voice was feeble. "They said it was just an accident."
"Who? Did you talk to the police?"
"Not yet."
"Well, formally, it was an accident, but this guy's lawyer contacted me today to know if you're going to bring an action, he said that his client is willing to compensate for both material and non-material damage."
"But... What... What did he do?"
"Again, formally, he fell off an overpass."
"But..." I exhaled, my thoughts twisting into snarls.
"The officer thinks it might be a suicide attempt."
My breathing was uncontrollably ragged; suddenly, I felt my heart pounding in my throat.
"Who is he?" I asked in a rush; the words weren't as calm as I'd meant them to be.
"All I know is that he's filthy rich," Felix said with a snort.
I could feel something crippling, panic maybe, building up in my chest.
"What's his name?" The words came in a whisper.
"Um... I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to..."
"It's..." I interrupted him, but even thinking his name sent a wave of torture through me. "Ian Hassler?" I barely managed to say.
"Oh. Do you know him?"
"Yes!" I shouted, there was an edge of hysteria to my voice. "Yes, I know him, I... Where's he?"
"Mr. Reinsch, I'm sorry, I can't tell you."
I scrambled to my feet, and blood abruptly rushed from my head and left me dizzy.
"I'm not going to sue," I choked out. "I just want to see him, I just..."
My breath came in a wild gasp.
"Please..." I whispered.
"He's in the hospital now," he finally said.
I exhaled, my pulse was hammering through my veins.
"Which hospital is it?"
He was silent for a long moment, but that silence unintentionally became his answer.
The adrenaline spiked through my body as I realized.
"He's here, right?" I said under my breath.
"Anyway," Felix's voice suddenly went anxious. "Let me know if you need anything."
My hand dropped down, the phone slipped from my shaky fingers as I struggled for even breathing.
I stared at the rows of the hospital's sparkling windows for a long moment; my hazy thoughts rambled to the moment I came alive — I realized that the image of the hand covered with blood wasn't delirious. And then I rushed, stumbling, to the entrance, annoyingly slow — my previous body was absolute impervious perfection, but my current one was weak, pitiful, damaged. I hurried through the doorway and strode past the front office receptionist, through the flurry of hospital personnel. My gaze flew toward the sign above the information desk.
The trauma department had four floors — I had no doubt he should have been there after falling from a height of five meters, plus he has talked to his lawyer already, so he obviously was transferred from the intensive care unit.
I hopped in the elevator and squeezed in beside the other passengers – three nurses and the patient with his hand covered in plaster— and looked at the buttons.
Filthy rich, huh? I thought, staring at the VIP floor caption — he certainly had better health insurance than I did. I poked the button and exhaled.
As soon as the door opened at the fourth level, I hobbled toward the reception.
"Can I help you?" The nurse behind the counter smiled blissfully.
"Yes," I said. "What room is Ian Hassler in?"
The nurse kept smiling, though her right eyebrow slightly twitched.
"May I ask what this is regarding?"
I felt a surge of relief.
"I'm... I'm..." I faltered, wondering whether the truth or a lie would go over better. "I'm his boyfriend."
Her smile was still in place, but her eyes were impenetrable.
"Look..." I leaned against the counter and made a deep breath before begin. "Ian Hassler, born on August 8th, 1997 in Lochhausen, Munich. Mother: Noey Kalaya Joonkiat, father: Manfred Hassler. Occupation: software engineer, favorite color: black, dessert: marzipan. Dyslexic, allergic to soy, his..."
"Alright," the nurse decided to interrupt my monologue. "Can I see your ID, please?"
Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out my wallet. I handed my ID card to her; she shot another wary glance at me when she saw my fingers trembled.
She turned to her computer and started typing something into her system, with distinct deliberate slowness. Every second of waiting seemed excruciatingly long.
"Hmm..." she finally muttered and turned his gaze away from the screen. "Well, I'll check if he's available and ready to see you right now. You'll have to wait a minute."
I nodded as she came out from behind the counter and headed toward the long paneled hallway. I stayed where I was, keeping my eyes on her back, apprehensive.
I felt a spasm of fear at the abrupt memory of his words that moment in the Archive. "I didn't care about anything. People
can be dead even before they have died."
Who said that it would be easy? I thought to myself.
The nurse shuffled back to the reception area, and I looked at her eagerly as she approached me.
"Ward number 402," she said nonchalantly, and I exhaled in relief and raced along the hallway.
I felt an absorbing thrill of impatience; my breathing accelerated with excitement as I limped past the 401st ward, but I suddenly felt numb the moment I reached the right door. My mind was swiftly spinning with dozens of poisonous what-if-guesses.
I grabbed the doorknob, trying to order my random thoughts.
"Are you going to stand there for a damn eternity?"
My heart thudded at the voice from behind the door — his voice. The voice of my Ian, but it seemed different. No, it still was the same sweetish timbre that could — I know, I heard — whisper some vulgar nonsense in my ear, but his tone was bleak, lifeless... dead.
I took one last deep breath before doorknob twisted under my hand.
My stomach flipped as I saw the back of his black-haired head — he was sitting in the wheelchair turned toward the floor-to-ceiling window with a garden view.
"Hey," I whispered weakly.
His hands reached the wheelchair's wheels, and realization blew me deep: his both palms were bandaged with gauze.
I had a chance. But I had no courage. I lost something vital for me, his words flew through my foggy mind.
I remembered Lothar broke his hip a few years ago, and he had to use a wheelchair for three months. On long days he always got blisters on the heels of his hands, and just after a month of using a wheelchair, I bought him wheelchair gloves.
But Ian had no one to buy him the gloves.
I felt an unexpected lump in my throat when he turned his wheelchair toward me.
He was almost the same.
His skin seemed a little tanner, but his eyes — his breath-taking dark-brown eyes — were the same behind the black frame glasses. His hair was a little curlier, and there was a tiny scar on his temple.
He was amazing — he was the same annoyingly handsome Ian Hassler I knew.
...you know, I had really poor eyesight...
...he ran me over with his old Opel...
Suddenly those excerpts were assembled in one complete story.
I was staring at his face for a long moment, but when my eyes flickered down — to his neck, his bruised arms and his legs below his jersey shorts — it came to my attention that he wasn't the exact same I remembered him.
He was even better.
An art, I thought for the thousandth time, examining the black patterns of tattoos embracing his skin.
"What if I looked differently? Maybe a bit more extravagant?"
He was perfect.
I felt unwelcome stinging tears in my eyes.
He scrutinized me from head to foot, lingering on my eyes and my broken arm.
"I don't think I slept with you," he said, and I sighed, hearing the confirmation of my fears.
He didn't remember me. He didn't even know me.
I looked at his face again — the bruises, the abrasion, and the deep dark circles under his eyes – all that still hurt me more than his algid contemptuous gaze.
"Right," I said finally. "Yet."
He narrowed his eyes, though his expression was still indifferent.
"What do you want?" He asked.
"You," I replied straightforwardly. And added, "Do you believe in love at first sight?"
Something changed in his face — fleetly, and hardly noticeably — no doubt it was triggered by the déjà vu.
I continued. "I want to follow you around until you fall in love with me."
We stared at each other in silence.
"Who taught you that pick-up line? Sue them."
I felt my lips twitched.
It was you, Ian.
I stepped forward, still confident, but my voice didn't seem that determined when I said. "At least give me a chance."
"Look at me," Ian said, his voice harsh, low. "Look at me closely."
I was silent.
"Most likely, I'll stay this way forever."
"Then let me stay beside you... this way. Forever."
Ah, I knew that expression. He was confused and doubted, he was pained to the very core of his being, but still, a tiny bit of hope kept breathing.
I knew how childish and silly my words sounded since he didn't remember me — this was our first encounter, I was just a stranger who happened to be at the wrong time, in the wrong place, only a shadow.
But I was going to fight. I was going to beg, to kneel down again and again if necessary.
Because I would never want anything but him, no matter I was dead or alive.
Another glance — deep, long, studying, it shot through me, drifted throughout time and space, violating all existing physics laws, this look was decisive. The look that forced me to realize that I would never, under any circumstances, give up.
EPILOGUE
"Hey, love."
I felt a gentle kiss pressed against my cheek and inhaled slowly through my nose — my lungs filled with the sweet sedative scent.
"Ugh. Babe, please. I'm about to die."
"Why would that be a problem for us?" I mumbled, my mind still was dazed and slow.
I heard a soft giggle.
"Please, Amery. I can't hold it in anymore. My bladder is bursting, I need my chair. Or I'll do it right here, which never was your fetish."
I opened my eyes to see Ian's tortured face hovered over me.
Fractured memories of the previous night flooded my mind slowly.
"Shoot," I exhaled as I realized. "Your chair..."
"We left it downstairs."
"Oh," I sat up so fast it made my head spin. "I'm so sorry."
"It's fine, but... please?"
I disentangled myself from the blanket and sprinted downstairs for the wheelchair, gathering up on my way the evidence of the previous night, which we started in the hall and ended in the bed — our yesterday clothes were scattered around the apartment.
As I brought the wheelchair upstairs and helped Ian into it, he dashed toward the bathroom, groaning painfully.
I put my boxers and t-shirt on and trudged into the kitchen, yawning loudly.
As always, I felt exhausted — sex was always like an intense, pretty brutal workout both my body and my mind couldn't adjust to. Ian knew that and never forced me to have sex, and unfortunately, I didn't always notice his desperate hints until he got to the point of frustration. Sex was the last thing I could have thought when it was about Ian's mood — the year of his antidepressant therapy was the toughest time of my life, so I'd been afraid of remission and often found myself searching for the symptoms of a depressive episode where there weren't any.
Anyway, each time I made love with Ian, I felt rather excited than obliged. His ecstatic moaning and eager embraces, his fingers clasping the sheets, his expression as he begged me harder and his sweet whisper against my lips, Come for me — all of that was essential for me. But, if I was honest, I had to admit that I'd worked hard on myself to meet his appetites.
I approached the sink to wash my hands — I wanted to take a shower badly, but coffee was my first priority. I took two cups out of the dishwasher and switched on the kettle.
I felt something soft tickled my legs and gazed down.
"Fitz," I mumbled. "Hey, asshole."
He rubbed against my leg and stretched blissfully. I picked him up to press a kiss against his soft forehead, but he didn't seem too enthusiastic about that.
I checked Fitzgerald's automatic feeder and water dispenser, making sure they're still full.
"He has spoiled you," I murmured.
And that was true — Ian has never had a pet, and Fitzgerald became his fulfilled childhood dream, though that made him really wasteful. He'd bought for Fitz a vast — from floor to ceiling — mansion with a few platforms, three bedrooms, and countl
ess stairs, tunnels and scratching posts, though, the best sleeping spots were still the kitchen counter, an old shoebox (Ian called it Nike Estate) and my face. The automatic feeder and inexcusably expensive self-cleaning litter box also had been bought in a burst of pure adoration of Fitz.
I fiddled with the coffeemaker's filter as Ian rolled himself into the kitchen; he was in his sweats and fresh t-shirt, his hair wet and shimmering from water.
"I'm sorry I woke you up for this," he said, putting on his glasses.
"I'm the one who should be sorry," I said and bent down to kiss him; he smelled like toothpaste and shaving soap. "Don't you have physio today?"
"I'll reschedule it for tomorrow. My hips are in agony because yesterday someone fuck the shit out of me. I don't think I could stand on crutches today."
"I'm sorry," I dunked the Earl Grey teabag in the boiled water. "But I did what I was told. How're your ankles?"
"Don't worry, they were resting on your shoulders all night long."
I handed him a cup of his steaming tea. "It had lasted forty minutes at most."
"It seemed like a year."
The coffeemaker announced a ready cappuccino as I turned to look at Ian with my eyebrows raised.
"Next time, I'm gonna make it seem like a century," I said.
"Uh-oh," he murmured, and I realized his apologetical tone was totally faked when he looked at me severely and asked. "When?"
I restrained a smirk and opened the fridge door.
"Okay, blueberry or raspberry?" I asked.
"What? Pancakes?" He asked, the hope in his voice.
"Yep."
"I love you. Did I tell you?"
"Like, seventy times in last night."
"Really? I have to stop; otherwise, you'll get bored, and you'll cheat on me."
I couldn't help laughing, but I pursed my lips and nodded in mock seriousness when I saw his earnest expression.
"Right. I'm such a... stud. I can't resist having sex with... everybody."
Ian grabbed a dishtowel and threw it at my face. I laughed again and took a stride toward him to grasp his face in my hand, forcing him to look at me.
"If you only knew, what's going on in my head, you wouldn't say such nonsense," I whispered.
"Blueberry," he said shyly, glancing away. "And a raspberry pie."