Read the first of this series here.
White lights queued. I made a new friend, and (much to my frustration) I cannot make his face out. I do, however, recall a sense of belonging; a nervous pain and desire that spoke through our eyes. We wanted to escape, to run with the liquor because childhood doesn’t drink. Adults do, and we wasn’t adults.
The baths were clouding. I wasn’t ready to see reality through a broken filter. The water was colder, saltier, and plenty. I wondered if he was going through the same thing, or maybe worse. Like AIDS? The thought was uncomfortable.
Getting dressed was easy, staggering through the hospital wasn’t. I made it, one stiffed leg at a time; I made it to the corridor. White lights queued. It was quiet, free from the clank of test tubes and needles.
Homie had a plastic ball. He had been waiting. We hit it hard and forgot the pills; we hit it hard to forget the misery. Our focus was on ruining something so beautiful,
Just like what life had done to us.
I was discharged six weeks later, Homie wasn’t.