Gone, Gone, Gone

by Hannah Moskowitz

  What does that even mean, “each other”? Each other what?

  How is it that he’s been pissed on by the universe again and again and again and here he is, eyes blue and wide and right on mine, waiting for me, and he’s scared out of his mind by some sniper, telling me that he doesn’t care, that he wants to work through all of this with me? How can he do that, and here I am with one bad boyfriend, pulling my hands back into my sleeves and saying I won’t I won’t I won’t?

  But I would be the thing to break him. I would say the wrong thing or pull at the wrong seams or kiss him at the wrong times or let him get sick and he would fall apart. He would become completely fucked up. I would ruin him. And I cannot do this again I won’t I won’t I won’t.

  And we say all the things we both already knew. We still don’t know each other very well, what have we shared, a few awkward kisses, a few fantastic kisses, some secrets that we gave up keeping secret from anyone a long time ago? A few arguments and a few funny conversations? A long-buried passion for Bananas in Pyjamas?

  And so we get it all out, or I get it all out, and he sits and he listens. And I’m saying it all. I’m still in love with Cody, and it’s very possible that the only reason I’m interested in Lio is because he is small and in pain and a little fucked up, and we both know it, but we didn’t need to say it out loud, and here we are having this conversation. And I can barely hear myself think or hear him be so quiet because there are way too many fucking other people in this room with us, screaming that they’re angry or they’re thirsty or that they do or don’t love me anymore, shaking at the bars on their cages and threatening to break out or in. They’re all I can hear. And Lio won’t say anything.

  I think I will be taking Cody out on everyone around me for the rest of my life.

  And every part of me wants this to work but knows I’ll hurt him more if I try. I don’t think we can date because I don’t think either of us could handle a breakup right now, and maybe that is enough reason to stand around with my hands in my sleeves forever and ever.

  And so now I’ve said it all. It’s out there in the open. We’re not anything. We’re barely even friends. We’re two boys in one house, back in our own clothes, about to retreat to our own rooms. Except mine isn’t even a room, more like a fortress.

  But I touch him because I can’t help it. And he lets me. And he moans, so quietly, in the back of his throat, and it is so good to hear him make noise, and I want to touch him, and I do, and I’m not talking anymore, and for a second I’ve stopped hurting him, but every time I pause to breathe or move my hand or look at him my brain starts spinning again and won’t stop. And the footsteps upstairs are making me realize that in a minute we’re going to have to stop and get separated because my parents are not going to let us sleep in the same room, even if we want to, which we don’tdowant, and I don’t want to start something and be interrupted. I don’t want him to leave in the middle of something, because I think I would honestly break into pieces, and this is why I cannot do this.

  And he starts to go, and then I’m saying, “Lio, please. Lio, let’s do this. Let’s not do the bad parts and do the good parts. Lio, please, we need to cling right now.” Forget that I’m not ready, forget that I’m waiting for some revelation or some epiphany or something to snap in my brain, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me.

  He looks at me. “Everything’s fucked now.”

  It doesn’t have to be fucked, we just have to never stop kissing. I say, “I really, honestly, know. Everything in the whole world is fucked and I really want to give it a try.”

  He takes a breath. “You just want to fix me.” I don’t think that I said that bit out loud, but it sounds so true that it makes my stomach curl up, and I feel humiliated for everything I am.

  But he didn’t say it mean.

  I say, “I want to love you.” I don’t love him. But this is so true. I really, really want to.

  “We’re fifteen,” he whispers.

  I say something Cody used to say to me whenever I’d say we were too young and that this couldn’t be real: “So, we still have our hearts.”

  But I don’t know what that means. My heart doesn’t feel like it’s going anywhere. It’s trapped in place. I just don’t know where that place is.

  Lio lies down next to me and rests his head on my chest for a minute.

  My heart is here with Lio for a few seconds. Then it’s beating funny again. Too slowly.

  He whispers, “Go to sleep.”

  But I don’t sleep, I never sleep, and now I’m crying a little from thinking about sleeping, and I’m so sore and so entirely exhausted, and we kiss a little, but I still want to cry, and he says, “Do you want me to sing you a lullaby?”

  And it’s so beautiful, and afterward he whispers in my ear, “You’re going to have to push harder than that to get rid of me.”

  He squeezes my hand.

  He says, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  But now he’s gone.

  C—

  I hope you know how badly you’ve fucked up my life.

  Can you just email me back? Like, I know it’s three in the morning and you’re probably asleep, but what the fuck, why did you stop emailing? Fuck you, Cody. Fuck you.

  You know maybe someday I want to have a real relationship, did you ever consider that? That at some point I might want something in my life that doesn’t revolve around this never ending cycling fucking fear that the guy is going to die any second, of a gunshot wound or a fucking self-inflicted gunshot wound or of grief or of cancer. Maybe I actually want to move on from our little fucking eighth-grade whatever and actually because Jesus how fucking lame is it but no matter what I still want you. I’m not moving on because I want you. And I’m not getting over you because I don’t know what the fuck happens after I get over you and I don’t want to be left here alone again, okay? Maybe maybe I want someone to stick around, because being the one left behind fucking blows, and I get that it’s not like you’re having an easy time either, but you should at least have the decency to answer my emails, because it’s thanks to me that you’re even at that school and not dead right now, did you even think of that? Did you ever thank me for taking care of you all that time?

  I love you, you fucking idiot, and I love you crazy and I love you sane, so will you please answer my emails? That’s all I’m asking from you, I’m not asking for your love or your brain or your fucking future although, let’s be honest, I’d take them all, I’d take them all and I’d keep them safe, just like I’ll keep you safe even though I don’t think I’m supposed to have to do that, I don’t think that’s how relationships work, one person taking care of the other one all the time, but damn it I’ll do it, Cody, but you have to answer my emails. You fucking have to. Fuck you, Cody, answer me. ANSWER ME. I JUST FUCKED EVERYTHING UP FOR YOU AND YOU WILL NEVER EVEN CARE.

  Love,

  C

  I don’t sleep.

  I don’t sleep.

  Breathless, awful, impossible, I don’t sleep.

  I don’t sleep.

  LIO

  I KNEW IT WASN’T GOING TO WORK OUT. AND I KNEW why, too. Because I’m Cody-lite. When there’s still the possibility, no matter how small, of Cody-real, what am I good for?

  This mattress is hard and rubbery. I can’t get it out of my head how much this room smells like him. And cat pee, a little, but it really smells like him.

  I need to move on. The problem is, I don’t know anyone else. Even before I moved, Maryland meant Craig.

  This is so pathetic. Maryland so far has been a boy who doesn’t love me, homework, and six dead bodies.

  God, I sang him a lullaby.

  I can’t believe that. I don’t sing for anyone but my dad anymore, and only then when he’s drunk after some work party and his Ls sound like Ths and songs come pouring out of me before I can stop them, like some kind of battle cry.

  Adelle would have a field day with me right now. Maybe I should start seeing her three times a we
ek now that I’m in love.

  I think once you start going to therapy three times a week, you’ve made some sort of terrible transition. I think that’s the difference between “a little fucked up,” in a concerned, endearing tone and “fucked up” with raised eyebrows and a slow head nod.

  Craig would probably like that. It probably brings me closer to turning into Cody.

  That isn’t fair of me to think, but I don’t care right now.

  Maybe all that bullshit about how you never forget your first love is true. Maybe Craig will go through his whole life taking little wounded puppies and trying to mold them into a Cody that he can save. Maybe that’s what happens when you get your heart broken.

  But I’m not just some wounded puppy. I’m not. And I’m not going to let some boy make me all about things that happened to me because that’s how he knows how to see me. Shitty things happened to me, and they happened, and I’m dealing. I’m fine with being wounded, but not to prove a point. I’m not an archetype. I’m fifteen fucking years old.

  I sit up and look out the window. It’s stopped raining now, and the moonlight’s glaring through the tree branches. The dark is so heavy that I don’t think it can be disturbed. Maybe that’s why there haven’t been any overnight shootings. The night would muffle gunfire like a pillow.

  I want to wrap myself in the dark and disappear.

  I want to wrap myself in Craig and disappear.

  Will I give in to this? Is my heart broken now? Will I spend my whole life trying to turn boys into him? Dressing them in polos and pricking their fingers to make them cry?

  I have a desperate urge to get what I deserve, for once.

  I go into the bathroom and drink water out of the sink. It’s hard to swallow. My lips still feel tingly, and so does my body everywhere he touched me. Maybe I’m dying.

  Tonight, I’ve been so worried about getting sick again. My whole head is throbbing cancer cancer cancer, and I’m paranoid it means something. I got blood work done last month, and I was fine. But I’m scared. I’m scared again. I close my eyes and do deep breaths.

  I bet Craig never thinks, “I’m dying.”

  And to be honest, I probably spend more time thinking, “I’m living.”

  I sit down on the toilet. I can see myself in the mirror. This is so weird. Who wants to look at themselves in the mirror when they’re on the toilet? I guess it’s okay when you’re only sitting here, like I am now. But I still like to know where mirrors are before they sneak up on me.

  I look at myself for a while.

  I try it a few different ways; I turn my face at different angles, and push my hair back off my forehead, trying to see how I’d look if I were a tiny bit different in a few different ways.

  I am so pathological.

  I feel like I need some sort of hotline right now. Not a suicide hotline, more like the opposite. Is there a hotline for people who feel a little too motivated to be alive?

  I don’t want to die, but I wish waking up every morning didn’t feel like such a fuck-you every single time. Sometimes I don’t want to get out of bed with my hands in fists and a fight song in my throat because rah rah I beat cancer. Sometimes I’m only getting up to go to school, and that has to be okay. I need to calm the fuck down about still being here, but I don’t know how.

  I’m worried I’m going to go through my whole life feeling like someone’s pulling me, like from a string behind my belly button. I’ll keep going if you let go. Really. You don’t have to make me. I have every intention of sticking around. I didn’t mean to be ephemeral. I wasn’t trying to scare you.

  I put my hand against my reflection for a second, like it’s a door I can fall through. This isn’t Alice in Wonderland. I’m not nearly pretty enough. I’m probably not even fucked up enough.

  There’s a scratching at the door. I open it, and a little white kitten comes in.

  I go down the stairs.

  I go down the next flight of stairs.

  I’m in Craig’s room. Or his basement, anyway.

  He’s on his side on his bed, facing away from me. He’s whispering. His voice is so quiet it makes my ears hurt to listen. Maybe whispering for him is like crying for most people.

  He says, “Please please I would have saved him if I could, I would have done anything, would have given up anything just to keep him here so that my boy could be okay. I know there’s nothing I can do but I need it to be enough that I would have done it, and I need that boy back with me right now.”

  I can’t listen to this without wanting to believe it’s about me. I can taste crying in the back of my throat and in my sore mouth. I don’t want it.

  A dog barks and Craig starts to roll over. Fuck. I run back up the stairs with my six-minute-mile legs.

  I hear, “Lio?”

  I’m already gone. I sit in a chair in the kitchen. He doesn’t come after me.

  I whisper, “What if someone breaks in and tries to kill me? What if you wake up and I’m gone?”

  I take the phone off the wall and call home. My dad answers almost immediately. And instead of saying hello, he lists all of us who aren’t there, top to bottom: “Talia Rachel Veronica Lauren Lio?” He always does that. Always. And it always breaks my fucking heart.

  “The last one.”

  “Honey. You okay?”

  “Can you come pick me up?”

  “I’ll be there in a second.”

  “I want to come home,” I whisper.

  CRAIG

  WHEN I WAKE UP, HE’S GONE.

  I can’t say I’m that surprised.

  Was that a dream? Did I sleep?

  My mom says, “Where’s Lio?”

  “Left early.”

  I made his escape too easy. The code for the alarm system is still on a Post-it on the wall, because we can’t remember it yet, and clearly my dogs don’t give a shit if someone comes or goes in the middle of the night, and I didn’t do anything to encourage him to stay, so what did I think would happen? I don’t even care that he left, pretty much. It’s not like he’s dead.

  I make myself a bowl of oatmeal. Mom’s standing at the counter, reading the newspaper. “Anyone get shot?” I ask.

  She clicks her tongue a little. “No.”

  “Cool.”

  She says, “You don’t need to rush. You’re not going to school today.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “We’re pulling you out until—”

  “Until what?”

  “Until this has passed, Craig. God, after what happened to that poor boy, you should be relieved to stay home.”

  The truth is, I’m not particularly dying to go to school, but somehow I know this means I’m not going to see Lio today, and that sucks.

  “Are you still going to work?” I ask, and then, “Is Dad going to work? What’s even going on in this house, God, is Todd asleep?” And when all of those are yes, I sit patiently and wait for Mom and Dad to leave and then, woosh, I’m out looking for animals. I find Carolina, my rabbit, scratched but okay, and Mom calls from work and says she has amazing news, that she got a call from the animal shelter and she’s coming home with Marigold.

  I know that it’s amazing, and I try to get as excited about this as I was when we found Sandwich. But I’m having a hard time feeling anything today. It’s like I’m finally too tired for all of this.

  Two cats.

  One rabbit.

  A guinea pig.

  That night, while I’m hitting refresh over and over, a message finally comes in.

  My heart stops and holds midbeat.

  C—

  Ok ok stop freaking out. I’m fine.

  I miss you too.

  My shrink told me to stop emailing you.

  I heard about the shit happening back home. That’s insane. You’re safe, right?

  Love,

  C

  Oh, God, he didn’t say “Fuck you.”

  My fingers are going to fly off from typing so fast.

  C—
>
  I’m fine. Of course I’m fine. I’m emailing you, aren’t I?

  Cody, I’m sort of dying without you. You should see the boys I’m turning down because I’m still hung up on you. What’s going on over there?

  Love,

  C

  While I’m typing that, my email dings as a new message comes in.

  Craiger—

  I want to apologize for leaving last night. And for creeping into your room. Basically I’m just sorry for being such a creeper all the time.

  School was lame. Hope you enjoyed your day off and you didn’t get shot or anything. Oh, sniper humor. Have you watched the news? They’re doing all these videos about how to not get shot when you’re pumping gas. Informative.

  Duck if you see a white van. Or if you’re pumping gas. Better yet, don’t pump gas, okay? But if you do, you bob around a lot and try to stay behind your car. Thank me later, when you’re still alive. Stay alive, Craig, okay? Don’t get cancer.

  So I don’t know what decision we came to, last night, really, and I’m confused, so . . . here’s what I think is going to work out best for you. Here it comes.

  Essentially, I’m not going to bother you anymore. I don’t mean this in like an emo way, though it probably sounds that way to you. I wouldn’t blame you for thinking that. You haven’t seen much of my ability to make friends. But I swear I can do it. I had a whole posse of gay boys in New York. And I think my father might still think I’m straight. I don’t even think he’s trying to deny it, I think he really is just that clueless. So he’ll probably match me up with a nice Jewish girl soon, and there’s a friend.

  Anyway, I’m not even sure if there are any fabulous Jews or homosexuals at our school, but rest assured that if there are, I will find them. By Friday they will be my babies. Mark it.