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The trees stand barren and desolate, devoid of leaves that once adorned the large trunks. The warmth of previous summers has not yet returned, with snow blanketing the ground like a duvet on a bed. Each breath brings sharp, icy prickles to the lungs. It’s a numbing pain, though subtle; when one lives with this sensation constantly, they become accustomed to it. In fact, they have no choice but to adapt.
Chills run down your spine. It’s not because of the cold. Far from, really. The voice next to you speaks quietly, so as not to let others hear the gossip he is sharing with you. Occasionally, snickers and loud laughter escape him when he cannot help but be noisy. It is a quality you cherish. You cherish all his qualities, in fact. What is there not to love about this man?
You are certain that the feeling is mutual. He has the same look in his eyes as you, the one that conveys, ‘I would do anything and everything if you asked me to.’ There is no doubt that you would go to hell and back for him, just as he would for you. You’ve taken a bullet for the man—literally. Even if it ended in barking back and forth you’d do it again, no hesitation.
“I’ve got ta’ admit, yer’ lookin’ a wee peely-wally there, bonnie,” The Scotsman pointed out the obvious and you almost wanted to reply with a snarky comment. Instead, you finally lifted your gaze from the ground to meet his.
“It’s winter, Johnny.“ You hum and give him the shadow of a smile.
“Nah, excuses. Yer’ always lookin’ knackered. Ah’ see it even if ya’ think I dinnae,” He calls your bluff so easily it makes you break the eye contact for a moment. That gave it away, gave away what you had been trying so hard to conceal.
“No more of your craic?” You try to switch the topic by throwing in his Scottish slang. It usually distracts him and earns you some praise for remembering. This time it seems it wouldn’t though. Not with the way he was sniffing out the bullshit on you like a dog.
His face was deadpan serious. It wasn’t nerve-chilling, per se, but it was quite intimidating. You give him a soft smile as your eyes finally decide to look away for sure this time. The winter sunset was a miraculous view yet your attention was not on it, it was on subsiding a cough. The metallic taste bubbled in the back of your throat, it scraped at the sides, clung onto the most sensitive parts of your insides. Your facade gradually cracked under pressure. Johnny’s eyes were set on your odd behavior. Hunched over, grasping your layers of pants with somewhat teary eyes.
His hand moves onto your back and gives a pat. The string is severed, an alarm sounds, and the thick liquid bursts forth. You cough as though you have just inhaled fumes denser than walls. The blood flows out as if a faucet has been turned on. Your hands rush to your mouth in a desperate attempt to cover the gaping wound that could lead to your demise if not sealed quickly. It seemed like you had been coughing for an eternity before the episode finally ceased. You sluggishly looked over at Johnny, resembling a deer caught in headlights. Unease reverberated through your hollow bones.
The man was truly petrified. His expression was bewildered, and he seemed to harbor an apprehension for you. His eyes were wide like a whirlpool. Your head throbbed as if a swarm of bees were running wild inside it. It was all so suffocating yet simultaneously depriving. The burning sensation in your throat, as if you had swallowed lava, rendered you speechless. The tongue in your mouth felt too heavy to lift, just like your limbs. There was a significant amount of unease weighing on your back.
The white winter coat you had put on earlier in the morning had become splattered with a contrasting red. It was destined to stain just like your hands were. Both were as fresh as the produce in those amusing markets your aunt had once taken you to. "Organically grown!" or so they claimed.
Your trembling hands reached for your soiled sleeve to shield the world from seeing your bloodied, clothed arm. The white snow was stained with crimson red, not just on your sleeve. The world had frozen for you, but not for anyone else. His hand gripped your shoulder to steady you, but you did not respond. You couldn't meet his eyes, not for your own sake.
It was only when you were physically shaken that your head no longer hung low. Johnny's calloused hand lifted your chin, preventing your head from falling back down. The world resumed as if he had held the remote control to it all along. There was no exchange of smiles or tears, only betrayal. Betrayal for hiding something like this from him and allowing him to live without knowing your pain.
Your mouth opened, but what could you possibly say? “Oh, I’m terminally ill and I’m going to die soon! I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but now you know!” You should have said something months ago, when you realized that death was looming nearby. Now it was mocking you, even spitting in your face.
Johnny's hand moved to your mouth, and his voice was soft as he said, “It’s baltic out here, int it no? Guess ya’ caught a nasty cold.” His reaction shocked you to your core, like thunder striking a tree. You were utterly baffled. After a few blinks, you quickly regained your composure. He had wiped away all the residue from your lips and chin.
The guilt was overwhelming, and your eyes begged for a way out. A way out from the daily suffering, but even more so from the present circumstances.
“I’m sorry,” You turn your head as you speak. He gives you a semi-understanding look, “Anno’.” It felt like the first day you both met for a moment. The look of love, whatever they called it.
You shake your head, “No, you don’t.”
He gives you a raise of his brow, “Ah know yer’ sorry for hiding it.”
“That too,” A sigh escapes your beaten up throat, “No, I’m sorry I can’t get better.”
“Dinnae say that. Yer’ being awfy’ negative, bonnie. You’ll get better, strong lad you are.” His reassurance grips your heart. It was bittersweet. He didn’t know, how could he? Even more, how could you tell him without tearing the man apart?
Your bloodied, pale hand meets his. You guide them to your chest, centering them right above your heart.
"There is no remedy for this, Johnny. I am going to die," your voice emerges, trembling, and for a moment, you fear it might shatter. "It’s a terminal illness. I’m too far gone for treatment, and the chances of recovery are below five percent."
You cannot look at him for too long without feeling overwhelmed. His face bore the pain of countless men, or so you would think he would exaggerate. He had always been melodramatic, but this time you might genuinely believe him. Your grip on his hand tightened. Perhaps if you didn’t let go, just maybe, you wouldn’t have to think about saying goodbye. You could both retire, get married, the doctors would discover a treatment, and everything would be perfect, but you know it is wrong to envision a fantasy. It gives you hope, and you are not allowed to have that.
Your eyes return to his face, almost glued to it. His bottom lip trembles, and you cannot help but give in. In a swift motion, you pull him into a tight embrace. His head immediately burrows into the crook of your neck, one of his hands tangling in your snow-covered hair while the other clings to your waist. You recognized the feeling of desperation as if it were an old acquaintance that had recently resurfaced with his arrival. It was a painful sensation, one that made you long for the impossible and reminded you of the weight that dreams can carry.
“Hey, I’ll be fine. I’m not going anywhere; I’ll never go anywhere that you can’t follow,” the lie escapes so effortlessly that you almost convince yourself of it.
The warm wetness on your shoulder shatters your heart into countless pieces. It pains you to see the man you love in such a distressing state, particularly when there is nothing that can be done to help him. The glass broke gradually with every sniffle, every mumbled attempt at speech, and his firm grip on you. The dam burst when he began to sob openly. Oh, those cries. You would grasp your heart if both hands weren't busy holding onto him.
"The doctor shared something with me," false hope. "He mentioned a phenomenon called spontaneous remission, but advised me to keep my expectations low regardless." Your voice trembled with every word. At that moment, you began to cry. The courage you had struggled to uphold faded away like a wilting flower.
“There’s a very slim chance that it could simply disappear. Just like that, poof, gone.”
“Aye? They said tat?” Johnny had calmed down more than before, but he still trembled. Even though the tremor was slight, it was still present. You let out a small smile, "Yeah, they said it. Do you wanna know what else they said?"
“Wot’ they say?” Even though his voice was hoarse, it was pleasant not to hear it so broken. "They said that a kiss a day would keep the illness away. It has to be from a very specific man, though." He let out a soft laugh at the little act you were stirring up.
Even though his voice was hoarse, it was pleasant to hear it less broken. “Yer’ jokin’!” Johnny's small gasp makes your body shake with laughter. "No, no! I'm not joking! They said it has to be a Scottish man, with shit for hair, definitely muscular, a sergeant, and he must have the most beautiful eyes the world has ever seen," you chuckle at the last part of your statement.
A comfortable silence envelops the two of you as your bodies intertwine in a tight embrace. Perhaps you wouldn’t live long enough to get married, nor to do taxes and laundry together, and even less to let the world peer into a glimpse of your undying love, but you are content in this moment. There is nothing to fear. The darkness will not consume you, nor will the sickness you carry like a parasite. If you remain in this memory long enough, there will be no plague in your mind. It won’t hurt to breathe if you just stay here, if you don’t move.
“I’ll be okay.”
“We’ll be okay.”
⌞ ⌝
Even as you lie rigid on that bed, the incessant beeping in your ear continues, the coldness of the room chilling your veins, you hold on to those words. Your breathing is shallow and desperate for the oxygen you already possess. Beside you sits your best friend, your lover, your savior. Despite the absence of a smile, you remain determined that you'll be okay. Not because you said it, but because he did.
Leaves from the vine
The distant wails of a man's cries, which you knew all too well, shook you to your core. Your eyes began to close against your will. However, you could hear everything clearly. Johnny's muffled pleas, begging you to stay, echoed in your ears. No one had mentioned leaving, yet he was so adamant that you were about to go. You attempted to remain present, to give him a passionate kiss that he would remember as his last, and to stay awake for him, but it felt as though the bed was coaxing you to sleep. You were the one who was leaving.
Falling so slow
Right, because it didn’t improve. The frequent nosebleeds, the increasing pain, the subtle spasms, they became more intense to the point where they could no longer be kept secret. You believed you had come to terms with it long ago, but how can anyone truly accept the idea of leaving their loved ones? It is a medicine that is impossible to swallow; you want to reject it, yet your mouth continuously begs to be filled with more, and you are given more. There is a yearning for something that cannot be replenished. You are holding onto something that does not exist, and they never cease to give you the benefit of the doubt.
Like fragile
Even as you fade in and fade out, you can decipher figures come rushing in. They came with such an urgency you worried, but not for yourself.
Tiny shells
They attempt in vain to rouse your body into a conscious state, but you go limp. Everything passes in a blur. Perhaps it was the tears in your eyes clouding your vision, or the lights temporarily blinding you. Whatever it was, it prevented you from looking at Johnny. Your consciousness was slipping away from you.
Drifting in the foam
“Don’t leave me, bonnie. I need you to survive; I need you. I can't do this alone.” His voice was clearer than when you had heard it before. However, you had no intention of going anywhere; you had made a promise. How could you leave when you had vowed not to go anywhere he couldn't follow?
‘Little soldier boy, come marching home’
”I’ll be okay, Johnny
You’ll be okay”
‘Brave soldier boy, comes marching home’
And he believes it. Even as the room is cleared and the hospital bed is missing someone, he believes it.