He had a kind of poetic symmetry. He was loud, funny and popular, around other people. He was quiet, sweet and shy, around me. He never pretended anything, everything he did and said was completely true to who he was. And he balanced me out. When I got too paranoid, too insecure, instead of feeding it he'd tell me to shut up. He loved me. There was no need for my doubts.
Sounds kind of harsh doesn't it? But it's what I needed. He was what I needed.
It was even better when I wasn't feeling down. When I was happy and he was happy, which over time got more and more frequent, it was like we'd died and gone to heaven, except it was nowhere near as cheesy as I imagine heaven to be. We would laugh and kiss and joke and fool around and just be completely comfortable with each other. He was like an extension of myself.
He got on well with my family too, when he came over. He would talk technology with my dad, charm my mother with stories of his past, give my older sister advice and chase my younger till she was flushed red. Every one of them loved him to bits and completely and whole heartedly approved of my choice.
His hand fit mine perfectly, as did his arm around my shoulder, his forehead rested on mine, his lips connected to my own.
At first, he was just paler than normal. But it was England in the Winter, paleness was not unusual. The bags under his eyes were slightly, but he did say he hadn't been sleeping well recently.
When he started coughing, we just thought it was the Winter coughing bug. Everyone had it during winter. Nothing to worry about.
As the weeks of coughing turned into months, as he started to feel ill, he went to the doctor who said he had a chest infection. He prescribed anti-biotics and steroids and told him to come back in a few weeks.
I first began to properly worry when he stopped telling me to shut up, when he stopped making those jokes that most girls would hate but that I adored. He went back to the doctors who told him to keep on with the anti-biotics.
The months passed on and on and his cough didn't clear.
He was at my house and we were lying on my bed, his arm around my shoulders, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. He sat up suddenly, a hacking cough shaking his whole body and the bed. I rubbed his back soothingly, but then watched in dismay as red splattered the duvet. He stopped coughing and looked up at me, eyes filled with fear as I tried to hide my own. He went back to the doctors, but we both already knew it was too late.
It didn't take long for him to deteriorate.
He was soon in hospital. I had taken to sleeping in a fold out bed beside him, a place usually reserved for mothers but that she had graciously handed over to me.
They did what they could, pumping drugs into his body but nothing worked. He was too far gone.
When he began to have difficulty breathing, they moved him to the hospice. I moved with him.
When he began to have difficulty staying a awake, I took to sleeping in his bed beside him just to be closer for that fraction longer.
I held his hand as he quietly slipped away one night. It was 3:41 am. His last words were spoken to me. He said "shut up".
The days after he died were the worst days of my life. At first I sobbed for hours and hours on end. But, when the tears had all dried up, I just did nothing. I lived on autopilot. I think that's what concerned them most.
On the morning of his funeral I rose early. I curled my hair because he had always loved it curly. I was the first one to the church and the last one to leave the graveside. It shames me to say that I did not shed one tear during the service. People tried to comfort me, holding my hand or shoulder, pulling me into an embrace but I didn't respond, my muscles limp. After they had all gone I had a quiet word with him. I told him that I loved him at first, keeping my voice soft and low. But before I could help it I was shouting, screaming, at him for his betrayal. How dare he leave me this way. The tears still wouldn't return.
The morning after I recieved a letter.
The address was written in his barely elligible scrawl.
The letter told me how much he loved me. It said how much it meant to him that I had stayed with him through this. He hoped I would get this before he died, but after was ok too. He included the engraved bracelet I gave him the previous christmas. He asked me to not forget him, but told me to move on. He said I was beautiful and I deserved to live the rest of my life as I would have, even if he wasn't in it. He told me to shut up.
I keep that letter in my top drawer and read it whenever I get sad.
It's been five long, hard years.
His son just celebrated his five birthday a month ago.
I gave him his Daddy's bracelet, far too big for him now, but told him it was something for him to grow into.
Depressing. Lol. Dunno where the hell that came from. Hope someone out there likes!He.
