Our escape plan is simple. It’s a heist, like all our missions. Only this time, we are the objects of thievery. Remember that our diseases own us. We are theirs. What they give us in return is the ability to be stolen. Now that we’ve practiced stealing those tangible and intangible desires, it’s time we slip through the iron bars.
There are multiple steps to think of. A five-point star isn’t exactly inconspicuous walking out of a hospital. The plan is top secret. Need to know basis. The first step is getting Neo to walk again.
He stands, his weight uneasy, imbalanced. His doctor said he had to practice. Practicing having to stand is a bit dehumanizing. I think though, that Neo is less bothered by the vulnerability than he is by my hands holding him upright.
“Why are you so cold?” he grumbles, his fingers curled like claws around my arms.
“Neo, what do you dream of?” I ask, chewing on the chocolate Sony gave me. Neo shook his head when she offered earlier. Now he just sucks on a single square, letting it dissolve in his mouth.
“Lately?” he asks, moving the chocolate with his teeth. “Annoying cats and C’s shitty music.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know what you meant.”
“Do you dream of publishing your stories?”
“I don’t know. If I ever write for money, it’s just so I can keep writing.”
“Isn’t that why all writers write?”
“No.” Neo shifts on his feet. His muscles haven’t been used in a while. They’re learning to work around an unbent spine. “Some people write so their name will be bigger than the title,” he says.
Neo is a good writer, even if he doesn’t believe it. He makes me feel despite the fact that I don’t remember how. Even Shakespeare doesn’t have that power. I know his stories can do that for people who need it. One day.
Neo’s weight shifts away from me. He stands on the balls and heels of his feet, upright. A breath shakes through him from ankles to neck. Despite the lack of him, he is able to stand, no butterfly rash or swelling to be seen.
“You’re getting better,” I say.
Neo stiffens. He leans his weight back onto my arms, clutching them. “I’m not leaving, Sam.”
“I know. That’s not what I meant.”
“I know what you meant.”
His fingers detach from me mechanically. He settles back on his unmade bed in easy steps.
“Are you mad at me?” I ask. His face is scrunched up, more than usual.
“No.” He grabs the papers on his side table, his pen too. “I have to fix Sony’s escape plan. It’s straight out of an action movie.” When he says Sony’s name, his eyes wander to the neon sleeves pulled over his knuckles. She isn’t with us now. She can’t be. Some turmoils of one-lungedness have to be handled alone. Maybe not alone. Maybe just with a cat.
The color catches Neo off-guard. He puts his hand on his chest and breathes in a little deeper to feel it rise and fall.
“Is she okay?” he asks. “I know you were with her yesterday.”
Yesterday, I got on my knees the way Neo would have if he were submerged in Sony’s blue. I held Sony once the doctor left. She didn’t cry, but she needed to be held. She needed to not be alone. Eric came in at the end of his shift and took her for ice cream. She accidentally let it slip that there was a cat in her room. It had bladder control problems. Eric pinched the bridge of his nose and told her that if she cleaned after it, he would just pretend it didn’t exist. He bought her a litter box and a food and water bowl. Later, when Sony had little strength left, he took her back to her room and spoke to her for hours, telling her about all the kids she hasn’t been able to play tag with lately. The mask didn’t hide her smiles. The ventilator was nowhere near as loud as her snorty laughs and teasing. When she fell asleep, Eric ran his hands through his hair. He cried. Silently. So that he wouldn’t wake her. His sobs were all breath. He covered his mouth till the dread he couldn’t carry left his body in tears. Then, he wiped his face, stood, and checked every vital sign, screen, and machine connected to Sony. Before he left, he kissed her forehead and whispered something I couldn’t hear.
It’s unfair. That those you take care of usually end up being the ones you care about. I should know. It’s what Eric and I have in common. We aren’t supposed to love them. Narrators and nurses mustn’t get attached. We are tied to this place, and they are tied to a pendulum swinging to either side of the ledge.
“Don’t tell me, actually,” Neo says, wiping his nose. “It’s better if I don’t know.” He scatters his papers above the sheets, recreating his sea so that there’s noise to fill the quiet. “Why are you still standing there? Go see Hikari or something.”
When he says her name, my eyes don’t wander. They unfocus. All my senses rush to my hands, the ones that mirror hers. I reach into both my pockets.
“I shouldn’t.”
Between my thumb and forefinger, my succulent peeks, only its container concealed. In the other pocket, Hikari’s note sits folded in my palm. Last night, I was supposed to meet her in our old cardiology wing, but I couldn’t summon the courage.
“Why?” Neo asks.
“She’s scary.”
“Aren’t I scary?”
“No. You’re small.”
He grumbles. “She doesn’t want to bite you. What the hell are you scared of?”
“I don’t know what she wants.”
“I’ve never understood what it is you want.”
“Wanting is useless for someone like me.”
Neo looks up from his writing, waiting for me to look at him too.
“Someone like us, you mean,” he says, his voice gaining an edge.
“Sorry.”
“Sony wants to play with her kids and the freedom to do whatever and go wherever she pleases,” he goes on, bypassing the awkward pause that would’ve been. “I want at least a part of me to be immortal, and Coeur wants–well–”
“Shitty music?”
“Probably.”
With a sigh, Neo glances toward the windowsill where the bouquets lay, infesting pests. In the middle, under just the right amount of light, my succulent’s sibling sunbathes.
“From the looks of it,” Neo says, admiring it, “Hikari wants the same thing you do.”
“I thought you didn’t understand what I want.”
“I don’t,” he admits. “But it doesn’t have to make sense.”
He goes back to work, the origins of our relationship making my hands feel weightless. As he writes, I reach under his bed and grab Hamlet, Wuthering Heights, and the Hit List from the cardboard box before pushing it back under.
Last night, I didn’t go to Hikari and I’s grave as I promised. I didn’t even go to her room to tell her I wasn’t going to go either. It was rude of me, but after what happened with Sony I couldn’t risk it. When you’re empty, the wind can toss you side to side with ease. The sun can shine right through you. Last night was a night I felt emptier than most.
“I’ll let you write,” I say.
“Sam,” Neo calls after me. He catches the books in my hands, the little clay pot and succulent peeking from my pocket. “Don’t let those things you don’t want to remember ruin this for you, okay?”
I nod, even if I don’t mean it, before shutting the door.
—
C is with his family tonight. They took him to dinner.
They’re rather nice. His father always slaps me on the back and laughs loudly when I don’t understand a joke. His mother is strict, much more strained than her husband. She tells me to stand up straight and fixes Neo’s hair without asking. She’s fond of Neo. People with harsh faces are always fond of each other. C’s brothers–he has many, five I believe–are more like their father: bellowish, large, talkative. C is a black sheep in the herd. Whenever they visit, he doesn’t take the time to be in the room with them as he does with us. He keeps his earbuds in and reads some of his and Neo’s book, ignoring the mass of conversation.
I wonder what he thinks about. I wonder if tonight, he thinks of Neo’s back, Sony’s lung, and Hikari’s blood. I wonder if ,instead, he thinks of our soon-to-be escape and the adventures that lay in wait. I wonder if he’s holding the promise Neo gave him the way I hold the promise Hikari gave me.
It’s only a thin, torn piece of paper with a dream in its lines, right? But it has her on it. Like Wuthering Heights, Hamlet, the Hit List, my poor succulent, and her drawing, she is embedded in the matter. Anything she’s touched, either with skin or words, I hoard. I may as well be a smoker clutching nicotine patches.
I press my forehead into the stack of books, walking, walking, walking, till the hum of chatter fades in. The cafeteria is busy for this time of night. Those in scrubs stir black coffee. Others, some waiting for results, some waiting for loved ones, mull over food going uneaten.
At the near center, a couple sits across from a girl.
They’re arguing. I can tell that much. The woman has her head in her hands, frustration flaring as she motions against the table. The man has his arms crossed, his eyes downcast, his head shaking now and then.
Hikari’s back is to me, yellow hair tied back in a ponytail.
I can’t see her face. All I can see is her body. Her legs don’t rock. Her arms stay tame at her sides. I don’t move until Hikari stands and leaves her parents at the table. Quickly hiding in a corner on the other side of the entrance, I wait for her to walk past.
I can’t say her name, but I want her to turn around. I want to see her and make sure she’s okay. I want, and the anxiety of that crawls like spiders up my stomach.
“Hamlet,” I call.
Hikari turns around, no tears to stain her cheeks, no sadness in her eyes. A rush of relief escapes my breath.
“Yorick.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. It doesn’t reach me. “Is that your succulent?” she asks as it waves from my pocket.
“Oh. Yes,” I say, looking down at it. “It’s wounded. I didn’t want to leave it by itself.”
Hikari snorts, sticking her hands in her own pockets. She wears shorts, her legs bare. They look smooth beneath the light, unbruised and unblemished except for goosebumps and a few bandaids.
“Are you okay, Sam?” she asks. My eyes snap up, cheeks reddening.
“Um–Yes–I–I just called you, because–well–”
“Because you saw my parents scolding me?” The books in my arms tighten against me. She has the same look as Neo when I brought up wanting, a sort of muted disappointment.
“What’s wrong?” she asks when my gaze draws to the ground, and my chin falls on the head of my books.
“I made everyone mad today,” I murmur.
“No one’s mad at you,” Hikari says.
“You should be.”
“Why? Because a skull stood me up?”
There it is.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Hikari laughs. It’s dry, no discernible beats to count.
“You can talk to me about it if you’d like,” I say, nodding my head in her parents’ direction. “About what happened. Or if you need me to carry a box around, I can do that too.”
“You really want to know?”
“Yes.” I swallow, eyes flicking side to side, foraging for some courage. “I’m exploring you.”
She’s been tying her hair up more often nowadays. Whenever we stand or sit this close, little details like that become apparent. Her eyes are close to her nose. She’s colder when she’s upset. And if I say something out of character, she searches. She reads lines in me she’s already read as if she misunderstood them the first time. And if you give her a chance, she’s forgiving.
“Okay,” she nods. Then, she turns on her heel, hair swinging with her, striding away from the weary cafeteria. “But you owe me a night. So c’mon.”
—
“So why did you stand me up, Yorick?” she asks.
“I was scared.”
“Scared?”
“Neo says you won’t bite me, but I don’t believe him.”
“You should listen. Neo knows everything.”
Her room is full of plants, some wounded and others healing like mine. Her clothes are piled rather than folded, avalanching out of a suitcase in the far corner. Her bed is unmade, her medication thoughtlessly strewn about.
“You’re messy,” I say, smiling as I put the books down. It’s endearing. The comfort she has with the space. She’s adopted the room, given it a personality.
Hikari narrows her eyes at me, faking a bite, her teeth clicking together. We both laugh.
Once my arms are free, Hikari breaks into a run, out of her room, into the hall, a chorus of nurses yelling at her to slow down in the distance. She doesn’t even explain what we’re doing. She trusts I’ll follow, and I do.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
Hikari just chuckles, her steps unbreaking. She shrieks when we both almost run into a group of doctors, quickly ducking her head and taking another turn. Her laughter rings, keeping me close even when I’m several strides behind.
She only stops when we reach the gardens, panting, the cool night making steam of her breaths like the cafeteria makes of coffee. The stars are dull once more, but nonetheless, she looks up, taking them in like it’s the first time.
“How about now, Sam?” She caresses the dark shrubbery and sits down on a patch of grass. “Do you feel alive yet?”
“We stole a race,” I realize, wiping my mouth.
“For Sony.” Hikari holds her knees in the crooks of her elbows. She knows. That Sony isn’t doing well right now. She knows it pains me as much as it pains her.
“Can I ask you something?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“What is a life to you?”
“There is a medical definition,” I say. “Neo says there are too many philosophical ones.”
“I didn’t ask for a definition. I asked what it is to you.”
What if I told you that I am not meant to be alive? What if I told her? Do you think she’d understand?
Hikari’s earlier coldness resurfaces. “My parents think I’m throwing my life away,” she says. “They say I don’t want anything worthwhile, and when I bring up the fact that they’ve never asked what it is I want, they call me childish. My parents are logical. Their faith is expensive. It has to be earned. They believe scans, bloodwork, doctors, but whatever I’m feeling? Whatever I say?” As if her parents are sitting across from her, a barrier a table thick between them, she sighs. “It’s difficult to feel heard by people who have no faith in your words.”
“They don’t believe you’re suffering?” I ask.
“It’s not that.”
Hikari’s fingers caress the scar from the crook of her shoulder to her chest. There is another scar just adjacent, younger than its predecessor. She bares them to me as if bearing secrets.
“I was so happy as a kid,” she says. “They don’t understand how all of the sudden things changed. Although it wasn’t sudden really, it was more like the older I grew, the clearer my vision became. My imagination thinned like fog, and the world I saw was so gray in comparison.” The touch at the column of her throat falls to the bandages around her forearms. She trembles, but I think she trusts me enough to undo them. Beneath, little white scars form lines like a ladder up her arm.
“It started with loneliness,” she says. “I could eat and not taste a thing, cry and not feel sad, sleep and still feel tired. I didn’t like what I used to like or want what I used to want. I thinned until I felt like a blur. A little piece of the background no one would notice had gone missing. And even if I’d never felt emptier, every time I tried to get out of bed, I felt like I was sinking. I’d stare at my clock and watch it tick, wishing I could break it.” She closes her hand around the cuts. It looks like she wants to cry but doesn’t remember how. “Thank god you all hate time too, Sam. I’ve been wishing it dead for as long as I can remember.”
She’s still a teenager. Teenagers aren’t as malleable as children. They have a sense of self, aspiration, dreams. Sometimes, parents feel threatened by that autonomy. They cling to the idea of their child, the idea of who they are. Anything off-script feels like disobedience. So when that child would rather read and write than follow in his father’s footsteps, violence ensues. When that child is trapped in her own mind, her mother and father negate the pain as nothing but a symptom of age.
“Hamlet was always my worst influence,” Hikari whispers, the breath ghostlike.
People glorify youth. Maybe that’s why she strays from hers. They see it as a period of freedom, sex, and stupid decisions. These are the best years of your life. Enjoy them. You’ll be grateful you did. Say that to a child and watch them be reduced to a fruit, ripe, and ready for harvest. You’ll be grateful you did–that is a regretful argument made by those who look in the mirrors and see rot. This is what comes of it. People who don’t believe one could be so numb that even their disease doesn’t hurt enough.
“You’re depressed,” I say. A new truth. One that tastes sour in the mouth.
“No, not depressed.” They ruined that word for me.” Hikari shifts, tucking her hair behind her ears. She makes a disbelieving sort of noise. “I think the worst feeling in the world is telling someone you’re in pain and hearing them say there’s no wound.”
“You need a wound,” I say, the urge to defend her trembling through my fingers. “Depression–I don’t care if you hate the word–Depression is a better thief than you or I ever will be. It steals moments that should be yours. That’s why you walk ledges and run and draw and steal and read, and–” I stop myself, remembering the pencil sharpener she stole and took apart, tucking the blade into her pocket.
“Depression is exactly like fear,” I say. “It’s all shadow and no body, but it’s real.”
That shadow looms over Hikari as mine does. It holds a noose just as tight around her neck. At night it’s harder to see, but there’s no mistaking it. The stars cast their dull light on her, and when one of them decides to flare, her shadow flinches.
“It has you too,” she says. “That’s why you’re bad at existing.”
“No.” I shake my head, not taking my eyes off her. “I chose this. My depression is consensual.”
She can’t help the laugh.
“You like the numbness?” she asks.
“It’s better than the pain.”
She opens her mouth like she wants to refute me, but no words come to fruition. She wants to tell me that pain is temporary, but she isn’t so sure now she has to say it aloud. She shuts her mouth again, her jaw grinding as she refocuses on the dewdrops.
Fear’s shackles dig into my throat as I almost say her name.
“My Hamlet,” I say. It doesn’t matter. Right now, she’s all that matters. “I may just be a cowardly skull, but I’m here,” I say, my hand closing around the grass just beside the hit list as I think about the shape of hers. “I’m always listening, and I’ll always believe you.”
The Hit list and my succulent sit between us as a marker of distance. The warmth we share disobeys. I lean into it. I haven’t said her name. I haven’t touched her. She isn’t real. I’m just a skull in the cup of her palm, so what does it really matter if I fly too close to the sun?
“Do you believe that I’m alive yet?” I ask.
“No.” Hikari shakes her head, but her smile lingers. “I still have to make you dream.”
“What do you dream of?” I ask.
Hikari sighs, staring through the stars that have yet to shine for her. “I dream of… annihilating that loneliness.” She hooks her teeth on her bottom lip, shrugging. “And maybe a grand romantic gesture.”
“Like in the movies?” I ask, remembering the ones Sony made Neo and I watch that ended up being renditions of my favorite love stories.
“Yeah,” Hikari laughs. “Like in the movies.”
We exchange something pure then, something wordless, a flirtation that goes past teasing.
“Then I’ll steal that for you too,” I whisper.
Of course, the garden can only keep us away from reality for so long. Hikari’s phone buzzes, and when she takes it out of her pocket and reads the message, her face falls.
“It’s C,” she says. “He had an accident.”
