Negative Space, or: When to Run Away

A bath like every other bath with your dying lover, and all that's left unsaid in an exchange of eye contact.

"Would you like to take a bath?"

He opened his eyes, blinking away the sleep made heavier by weeks of deprivation. She sat over him, stroking his greasy hair back, fingers dancing between the tangles of his dark curls and gently pulling the strands from his face. So gently, so deliberately, so carefully.

"Yeah, sure."

He didn’t recognize his own voice, torn by vomit and blood and smoke and malnutrition and dehydration. She didn’t seem to notice, and smiled as if he lit a fire in her heart.

"Alright. I’ll get the water going."

The water ran lukewarm, then hot, then steaming, and by the time he entered the room, the mirror was blurred too much to make out the details of his reflection. He saw the shapeless colors of his hair, dark brown and wild, sticking out. His lithe body, thin and sharply angular, caving in. A white, small hand, a child’s hand, reached out and stopped him as he moved to wipe away the fog. Gently, deliberately, carefully, he was redirected to the bathtub, unassuming kisses trailing his footsteps and feathering his neck. It was better that he couldn’t see how angular he had really become.

Knees shaking, he lowered himself down into the water, and as he let the warmth melt his bones and let his body fill the crevices of the tub, she followed suit. The water sloshed over the edges of the tub; he heard it, and beneath his closed lids, he could see her, so gently, deliberately, carefully, choosing her movements and covering herself modestly. They let the water spill wordlessly, knowing that cleaning was the last thing on either of their minds. He felts hands, those small child’s hands belonging to a girlish adult older than he, touching his hips and ribs and thighs. Those places he knew he had lost the most weight, shed the most fat, the most muscle. Those places, he was marked by substance abuse, mistakes, relapse, crying, suicide, helplessness, and an absolute loss of health. His body was dying. He would die soon. He had to.

Those hands, exploring the dips and concaves of his new body, wrote maps in braille as they felt him. Here, his liver struggled. Here, his heart pumped sluggishly. Here, his kidneys choked and tried desperately to function despite the whirlwind of methamphetamine they had endured. The binging. The free fall. He stared into the blackness on the inside of his eyelids, listening to the silence, letting her do her work, lips parted, relaxed and mind blank. When he opened his eyes again, it was a surprise to him; life wasn’t going to let him drop into the release of death. Not yet. This time, the white of the bathroom tile welcomed him, sliding in and out of focus as he regained his bearings. The child’s hands fell away from his weak body and he was prompted to look at her. She watched him, eyebrows peaked in worry, wonder, loss, confusion, fear, helplessness… so much emotion. So much pain. Regret burned his insides, but he swallowed the bile of tears and sat up.

They sat there together, legs crossed, backs hunched, looking at each other quietly. No masks to cover the silent words they knew they were both thinking.

Why?

I don’t know. You wouldn’t understand. You’ll never understand.

I’m sorry. I wish I did… maybe I’d be able to help you more…

I don’t know what I would do if you did. I wouldn’t be able to handle that.

The unspoken exchange brought tears to her eyes, and in a half-attempt to cover up her weakness, she went for the bar of soap and lathered it. “Here, turn around, I’ll scrub your back.”

The tenderness of her fingers as he fell into her brought memories back. His jaw fell open and his eyes fell closed, head hanging, sighing in the deep sense of comfort so rare to him. The child’s hands washed him and he appreciated it quietly.

Thank you.

Don’t worry about it. It’s my job.

The tenderness of the moment was an island in a sea of problems, entrapment, stress, and unknowing. They forgot they were scared for this moment. This love. Water sloshed over the side, now dirtied and soapy. She kissed the vertebrae now jutting out conspicuously.

The negative space of what wasn’t said or acknowledged filled the room with a pregnant, expectant quiet. She swallowed the bile of tears and ignored the cutting hips. Fingers flitted past the ribs rippling the olive skin made extraordinarily pale by malnourished carelessness. Eyes unseeingly moved over the sunken in cheeks, red and swollen eyes with dark rims and blue veins running across his lids and one splitting his forehead. His body was dying. It had to. All he’d done couldn’t be taken back, and he had crossed the event horizon of the black hole of hard drugs for the last time. The hole he’d gotten himself into was too deep. He fell. Hard. The free-fall might kill him this time, and if it did, she knew she would never recover. That was a blow she would never get back up from. To lose him once was enough; to lose him again would be the end. As if closeness would negate all the dangers and concerns they felt in their lives, their collective life, she pulled him in and pressed her body against his. Feather-light and broken, he moved easily. What had he done?

Like water on sand, his body fell away beneath her hands. But not just his body, his mind, his life, his love. Everything collapsed and dissolved in her fingers as she grappled desperately at him, tears flowing and sobs pouring out in a sudden torrent. Powerless to stop him from melting away before her very eyes and unable to pause time long enough to help him, help herself. It all fell away too fast, the sandcastle she built in her life. She didn’t know what to do, how to stop it all. She heard someone begging for help and realized it was her own voice, split and cracked with emotion and desperation. Please, don’t take him away, not yet, not ever. So many plans, so many memories yet made, so much to do, so many unspoken words and so many unfulfilled promises.

Groggily, through the haze, he turned back to her sobbing suddenly, mascara melting down her face. He wrapped his arms around her and let her bury her face into his chest and neck, confused and concerned, understanding not at all and yet knowing innately why she wept. Apologies didn’t cover it. Dropping off the face of the Earth would be so much better for her, how did she not see? No more crying, no more pain, no more drugs. She would be set free from this f**k-up addict she met in the mental hospital. But she couldn’t lose him, he knew… He had no options. He hurt her by existing and f*****g up. He hurt her by leaving. Not a day went by that he sought desperately a solution and yet, he found none.

They cried together until the water wrinkled their feet and hands and even then, they held each other tightly, gripping at each other, shaking and whimpering intermittently. Please don’t let them fall apart. Please hold on.

After binging for weeks and relapsing on meth, pushing her away, pushing everyone away, losing everything and flying too close to the sun once again, she was back. She cared for him while he recovered, brain, body and mind damaged near irreparably. She helped him stand as the water drained, she handed him the towel, she watched carefully as he walked stiffly to the bedroom in case he fell, and she read to him until he was able to sleep again. Even for all she did to change him and the situation, nothing seemed to get better. For all her effort, she had no obvious rewards. It was an uphill battle that had no happy end, no victory, in sight. And the prospect of losing this battle was too terrifying, too devastating, to think about. His body couldn’t be dying. He couldn’t be dying. He couldn’t. It was an impossibility, the idea of waking up to a cold body that would no longer give his opinions and advice and laughter. The idea of him dying seemed as absurd to her as the earth spinning, or, more accurately, the sun being extinguished. Every star in the universe being unlit at once, like a cruel light switch. His wax wings had melted so many times, just let them melt once more without him being damaged. Just once more. This is the last time he’ll relapse. This is the last time he’ll leave. Just one more chance.

His chest rose. His chest fell. The child, caught in a blitzkrieg of drugs and hopelessness and self-harm and fear and unknowing, crumpled and buried her face into her small, white child’s hands and shook helplessly, lost and replaying every memory she had of him in slow motion. Where did she go wrong? How could she have helped him more? If only she could pinpoint the moment that could have changed everything, if she’d made the right decision. He slept soundly, unaware, and she found herself crying again, quietly, alone, and scared to death that this boy wouldn’t wake up.