the worst 4 days of my life

4 days. 4 days 4 days 4 days. 4 days of fear. 4 days of pain. 4 days of insane emotional rollercoaster.

1. Wednesday. Afternoon. 3:15 pm. You said you took painkillers. You wouldn’t tell me how much. I thought that you had accidentally overdosed. That wasn’t the problem. Maybe if I’d realized that I could have been more help. You say that I’m the reason you’re still here. You stopped texting. I stopped breathing. All night. I cried. No one needed me. I didn’t sleep.

2. Thursday. Morning. I woke up and you had texted me. you were alive. You were in the hospital. I could breathe again. You were in pain and there was a creepy guy staring at you. You started bleeding again, but they said it was all part of the recovery. You say I’m the reason you’re still here. I believe that. That night I was alone again and I sent you a string of my hyper, sleep deprived thoughts because stars know my filter vanishes around you

3. Friday. Good morning! Happy one month anniversary. The creepy dude finally leaves you alone. You were recovering. Good afternoon. You’re bleeding. You’re bleeding and bleeding and bleeding and it won’t stop. You’re in pain and the only other person in the room is the creepy dude. Yesterday there was an emergency help button. Where is the button, I ask. They took it away, you tell me. I was getting better so they said I didn’t need it, you say. Because that’s how you run a hospital. You are alone in a room and coughing up blood and bleeding and in pain and I can’t do anything. You say that I’m the reason that you’re still here. I believe you and I hate it. Hours. Time always seems to go faster with you. Hours. They finally find you. They’re going to give you some treatment. There’s a 5 percent chance I’ll… you don’t finish your sentence. It’s odd that two suicidal teens won’t say death when it’s this close. You tell me to text you in 10 minutes. I can’t breathe. I sit in my kitchen, waiting. I explode and finally tell my mom. In 10 minutes I text you. You respond. I can breathe. You’re alive.

4. Saturday. Good morning. You’re going home today. Finally, finally away from everything that makes me scared. Because they may be there to help you, but they have been doing a real bad job of it. Before you go they’re going to put it back on you. No. no they can’t. Not only that, it’s the creepy guy, because he’s the only one who’s qualified. F--k qualifications, what about comfort and safety? You tell me that you cried on your way down the hall. You tell me that you screamed when they put it on. That they kept going, not caring. I want to kill them. You’re in pain. I tell you to tell them that, to say you want to take it off. You tell me that they said you had to keep it on. So, so much pain. You ask me one thing: can I die? The next time you text me, you’re in a dark room with no furniture and you’re alone. You’re bleeding and the pain. Your texts are scattered so far apart. At least 10 minutes between each, 20 most of the time. I’m so scared. I don’t know what’s going on. I call and call and call. You don’t answer. Finally I catch you. ‘Answer my calls’ ‘why? All you’ll hear is screaming.’ how how how do I tell you that comfortably listening to music in my room and wondering is so so much worse than listening to your pain? How do I tell you that my imagination is for once telling me things that are far too close to the truth, so close that I’m scrambling to find any reason that I’m wrong? ‘At least your screaming will tell me that you’re alive.” nothing. ‘You don’t even need to have your mic on. I’ll do all the talking. I’ll tell you stories, just please.’ ‘it’s hard with blood on the phone’ your full name. A demand. A plea. I’ll try, you say. A call. You pick up, finally. I talk and talk and talk. I stumble over my words and lose my train of thought and repeat each word 6 times each, but you’re listening and that’s all I need. 40 minutes. The call lasts 40 minutes. I cry and search for something more to say. You text me. Your mom found you, you say, I can stop crying. Please stop crying. You say that I’m the reason that you’re still here. I believe you and I hate it, because it’s so so much pain. And it’s my fault. And I need you here but if I didn’t you wouldn’t have to go through all of this. I’m sorry. You say that you are getting another treatment. You beg me to stop crying. I’m still not 100% positive that I didn’t worry you half as much as you worried me that night. I hope not. You don’t tell me what your chances are this time or when you’ll be awake, just ask me to stop crying. I bite my cheek and wait.

5. Sunday. Morning. I wake up with you as the first thing on my mind, like always. You texted me. You say that I’m the reason that you’re still here. I believe you and I don’t know how to feel. I miss you. I love you. I wish I could have been there. I wish it never happened. I wish that I could have taken your place. But you’re alive. You are finally finally home. I can breathe. I gasp for air. I spend the whole day flying on a high of relief, most of it hysterical, but not even a fraction as hysterical as I was the night before. And yet it seems like so long ago. I have never had a longer 4 days, nor 4 days that went by quicker. I don’t think I’ve cried this much, felt this much, since third grade. Because who knows. Who knows who knows who knows what I would be without you. All I know is that it would never be me.