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I was saved.
Saved by a boy who couldn’t have been older than me, and who could not have better timing.
I had been dragged to a party by my very stubborn best friend when it [almost] happened. I had just been trying to find something drink that wasn’t alcoholic. I had just put the cheap plastic cup up to my mouth when a man who was only mildly attractive in my eyes sauntered up to me and started to whisper things in my ear.
I tried to pull away, I swear, but as soon as the words, “Leave me alone you perv!” left my lips, he dragged me upstairs. I will never forget the way he whispered “no one should ever talk to me like that” or the way his hand stung my face. I will never ever forget the way my shoulders shook with desperate sobs, nor the way I tried screaming over the music.
This was it. This was how it was going to happen. No pretty white sheets, no smiles or giggles. Just muffled wails and dark laughs.
Now, what happened next was also something I’d never forget. And if you’d have asked me the day it happened, I’d have dreamily mumbled something about him being my guardian angel. But, if you asked me now, I’d smile and tell you it was just perfect timing. I’d lie through my teeth. It’d hurt too much to tell you the truth, to remember the way he stood there with an enraged look on his face before pushing the boy off of me. I’d cry at night as I remembered the way he’d handed me my jeans and shirt before realizing I couldn’t wear them [I could never wear them again], and after he’d wrapped the blanket around me before leading me outside and into his car. He promised he’d return the blanket later.
Whenever I think about the way he looked at me as we pulled into his driveway, I burst into tears all over again. I’d looked at him the same way as the monitor made that horrible beeping sound. The one that went on for the longest time. The one that didn’t stop until I’d screamed, drowning out the horrible sound it made.
He’d saved me, and I wasn’t able to do the same for him.
The day of his funeral, his mother handed me a letter. ‘Alex’ was scribbled on the front in his messy handwriting.
If you are reading this, I’m so sorry.
Dear Alex,
I remember the day I met you.
It was at some angsty party at guy’s house. I’d heard screams from upstairs, screams that didn’t exactly sound like the owner was enjoying themselves, so thinking that somebody was getting murdered, I got upstairs as fast as I could.
When I opened the door, I saw you. I saw you with some boy on top of you, smiling down at you, and tears running down your face. The first thing that went through my head was that you probably wish you were dead. I’d never forget that hopeless look you gave me, as if you had given up on everything. No human being should feel that pain.
I think the main reason I’d saved you was because I knew what you felt like. I had been diagnosed with Hodgkin’s lymphoma a month ago, and was told I had four months left. I’d asked how often they were correct with their predictions, and they’d told me a percentage. It was 98%. I didn’t want a percentage though, I’d wanted something that meant more than a few numbers and a sign. It wasn’t math.
Over the course of the rest of that month, I’d felt hopeless. I slipped into a dark void of depression. I never left my room, and kept human interaction at a minimum. That all changed when I met you, as cheesy as it is.
Everyone noticed my improvement the more time spent with you. You always asked what I was doing on the days I couldn’t hang out, and I’d always lie. It became more and more obvious that something was wrong over the next month, though. I’d lost tons of weight, and I looked very unhealthy. The treatments were draining me, and I couldn’t keep the fact that I was dying a secret for much longer.
Then came the most bittersweet moment that I’d ever experienced in all of my sixteen years.
We were sitting on your couch, watching something I didn’t really care about. You were so transfixed on whatever it was, I decided to take this chance to stare at you. You were beautiful. I hadn’t been a fan of brown eyes before you, and I couldn’t look at a pair of them without thinking of you.
It wasn’t a secret I was in love with you. I’m sure anyone who saw me looking at you realized it. I knew you liked me back, but I kept pushing you away. You were close enough already.
But I hadn’t noticed your eyes shift to me. I hadn’t noticed you smile, and it came as a surprise when you turned to me quickly and pressed your lips to mine.
I will never forget how they felt. It was Heaven, and I hadn’t realized what was happening when I kissed you back. It ran through my head multiple times to push you even farther away from me, but I could count the days I had left on my hands.
As I left that night, your parents noticed me holding your hand. Both of them smiled at me. They were cool with it.
But in the middle of the night, I woke up to find I’d spilled the contents of my stomach all over my bed. That’s also when I realized that I wasn’t quite done yet.
I’d grabbed my phone in case anything happened, and rushed to the bathroom, barely making it. I sat on the cold tile for ten minutes before realizing that’d been throwing up blood for the past five. You were the first person I called, gasping and trying to tell you something was wrong between heaving. Thank God you’d understood. You’d gotten to my house in less than three minutes. When you got there, you took one look at me and sped to the hospital.
You didn’t leave my side.
I’m writing this in case anything happens. And in case anything does, I’m telling you something that I’d been meaning to tell you for the short three and half months I knew you.
I love you, Alexander Gaskarth. I love you so much.
Yours forever,
Jack