the tailor

ᴜsɪɴɢ sᴛɪᴛᴄʜᴇs, you counted the time you had left. 

it was sort of twisted, in a way, and not twisted like your ankle was a few months ago, but twisted in the way that it was like cutting along a dotted line to reach the end of the page. and the end of the page was the end of your page, your little life, a path much like a road, with yellow dashes sprinkled down the middle. you used to get angry when people passed you, got further than you even though they were younger; the diagnoses changed that, though. you drive a smooth twenty-miles-per-hour now, close to the curb, so people can pass you all day and all night (you do not drive at night anymore).

you are a tailor, you learned when you were a young one, from your mother.

it saved you, in a way. it became your purpose. you would walk long ways to get to the fabric store and you'd pay with all of the pennies you had just to sew a new overcoat: you weren't supposed to walk alone, but your mother had said that if you caught a cold, it'd be bad. you wonder if she can see you now, if she knows the caliber of the cold you've got. not even a thousand overcoats could save you now, but, then again, you haven't got enough stitches left in the seams of your skin to sew a hundred. 

you still haven't told the most important person to you, though, because you haven't got it in you. it would sever the rest of your chords to this planet, you're sure of it. 

see, he was very quiet at first, and very rude, and you met him long ago. he hung around animals and justified hanging around you because "your mom treats you like a puppy on a leash", you never saw his childhood house but in pictures. it looked very clean, he wasn't allowed pets. 

but he fed the pigeons outside of the school lot and sat under trees to watch the squirrels bustle about.

he warmed up to you after a long time. your mother sat him down in the ninth grade and had a very serious conversation, one that detailed why you can't be alone, one that listed your allergies. he didn't tell you outright, but you saw him write them down. he's got them memorized now, burned into his heart like a wound. 

ever since that day, he wouldn't let you go anywhere alone. he would walk with you to the fabric store, he would tell you to be safe, he would walk you home afterwords, too. you made him overcoats and jackets and hats and sometimes, and when his momma wouldn't let him in the house at night, you let him come in through the window. he would watch you stitch little tiny lines and sew hoods onto capes. "who's that for" he'd always ask, and you'd say "im not sure, but do you like it?" they were always for him, if he liked them. 

he spoke his mind. he would tell you what he thought of the person you had a crush on at the time. "they smell bad and i don't trust them. what if you got sick?" 

in his defense, he was one of the few people who wouldn't- who couldn't- get you sick. you had to be pulled out of school at the start of tenth grade because it was too germy there, at the public school. but he came to see you every day after school. he said that without you there, the pigeons left. "it's boring there, without you. it's boring anywhere without you." 

he kept you alive with his kindness. with his foolishness. he didn't know how to act all the time, or how to say certain things. 

but he kept you breathing, he even walked you to your mother's funeral after twelfth grade. 

that's when it got worse, though, when he had to walk you to the doctor, when he got his driver's license just so he could drive you in your mother's old car to the hospital. 

but when you got the diagnoses, your neighbor drove you, the one who's middle name is the only name of theirs you can remember. you said you just needed to be dropped off and you walked home alone, you walked alone for the first time in several years, but the last time, most likely, of your entire life. 

it's been months since then, and you've already started deteriorating. you're working on one last coat, a coat for him. 

it'll be done, you think, today. all that's left is the buttons; you called him over so he could watch you do them, just as he always has. 

he came over immediately, and sat near the fire. "who's that for?" he asked. 

"you, of course." you smiled but you did not show your yellowing teeth. 

he was silent, then, for a long while.

"why didn't you tell me?" 

"tell you what?" 

"tell me that you were dying?" 

you couldn't stop the tears. they hit the fabric of the jacket- it was navy blue, that was his favorite color- and they hit your hands, your ashy hands. but you kept sewing, without looking at him. 

he stood up. "why didn't you? did you think i wouldn't know? did you think it'd be a surprise? i've known you for years. i know when you're not well. what if there was something i could've done?! is it too late now?" 

you let him yell and cry in frustration as you sewed the penultimate button. only a few stitches left. "it was too late years ago, leon. but with this,... with this... you'll be warm."

"how can i be warm if my sun is gone?! tell me that one!"

"i'm so sorry, leon. i'm so sorry." you couldn't sew anymore. he walked over to your big chair and hugged you delicately, he's always been delicate. after a few moments, he let go and picked the coat off of you, the stray strands of thread, the needle, the thimble, the button. he slipped his arm under yours and heaved, picking you up with tears on his face. "where are you taking me. leon. put me down, i haven't... i h- haven't finished your coat." 

"we're going to the hospital."

all you did in the car was apologize. he didn't say anything aside from stop/it's not your fault/i'm not angry/please, stop/i love you/. he's only said "that" a few times, after you gave him his first coat, after he walked you back from the funeral, after you sprained your right wrist and he had to paint your nails for you. you told him that a lot. when he got off the bus after seeing his father for the first time in years, when he painted your nails, when he walked in the door that night. you told him all the time. you couldn't keep it inside, your love for him. 

one time, you thought he was going to try to kiss you, but he didn't. he's loved you that way for a long time, probably, but it wasn't until you rode in your neighbor's car that you realized you loved him in such a way. but how cruel to tell him you loved him like that when you were dying? to answer his whispers, and then to become a whisper yourself? you couldn't do that to him. you were already going to cause enough pain, you were already going to stop his world from turning. how could you bear to suck the oxygen out of the atmosphere? you were thinking, before, that you were getting arrogant; that you were assuming he held that much love for you. 

but he does. you know it. you've seen it, all these years, and you saw it that night, when he came over immediately. you saw it when he scooped you off of the chair. you saw it, you saw it in the damp whites of his eyes.

✄- - - - - - - - 

ᴄᴜʀʀᴇɴᴛʟʏ, you're in a hospital. it reeks of bleach and plastic and the walls are of the purest white; the lights stain your skin with artificial vitamin D and you're very, very, very, very tired of being there. it's been approximately two days, but hospitals have always driven you up a wall. they freak you out, they make your legs wobble, they drive a sense of unease so fluidly down your spine that you have no choice but to arch your back every now and again. 

you finished his coat only a few moments ago. it was hard to sew the last button, though not because you thought it to be the last button you'd ever sew, but because you had IVs stuck in your arms and you weren't technically supposed to be sewing likewise (you hid it from the peppy nurse. she meant well, but isn't good at bossing you around). 

he, however, hardly left your side; he smuggled your sewing materials, and even bought new ones ("you have too strong a sense of duty to leave me here alone if i haven't gotten a hat to match my coat"). it brought down the swelling deep in your ribcage, it made you feel better, but it did not, and it could not, quell the swell of the parasite deep in your bones. the doctor said you'd improved mildly at the cost of your physical atrophy, but you'd have to stay for a while, undergo intense treatment if you even dreamt of living. you found it asinine that before, they told you methodically how much time you had left, yet now, they lock you in a hospital bed, chastising you for neglecting your appointments. in the afterlife, you thought, there are no appointments. 

but there isn't leon, either, so it is a dark place, and the pigeons are probably hungry. 

✄- - - - 

sɪx ᴍᴏɴᴛʜs you will stay in that bed. six months, they will prod and poke at you, the chemicals will pull out your hair. they'll refuse to buy you teeth-whitening devices, the nurses will decline your request for buttons, deny your offers of fixing up their scrubs, adding a few bits of trim. six months that leon will have to watch three houses: his own, your own, and you, because to him, you were a home, a house, a bulwark, a fort. he will water the plants and wear his coat as he does it. 

but six months is a short price to pay for an eternity of hospice. 

✄

"ɪʀsᴛ ᴀɴᴅ "ᴏʀᴇᴍᴏsᴛ, when you get out, you feed the pigeons.

the doctor says it might come back, the festering acidic cell cluster, but you do not cry, you do not sob. you are guaranteed at least another day, and you will accept as much time as you can garner.

Author's Note

thanks for reading!