#bruce pearson

your face was void of any makeup, you’d long since cried it all away, and your features were flushed, dull. pressing the pads of your fingers to your skin, it feels hot, and you flick away any residual water before expelling a sigh.

you wanted to break down and cry again, but you feared you had no tears left. your eyes felt dry and irritated, but you knew it was a farce; there were still endless oceans that were simply waiting for another dam to bust, another visit from the doctor, or another painful night. a little more pressure on your weak resolve, and you’d soak his shirt with your saline lament again.

how is it possible for one person to cry so much, anyways? the first few days, that’s all you had done. hours felt like years, and your tears were a flood that wouldn’t stop. it threatened to sink the hospital and everyone with it for a time.

you knew it hurt him, to see you in such anguish, but you couldn’t pretend that this was normal. you couldn’t sit there and watch him, taken from you piece by piece, and act like everything was okay. like you weren’t being robbed of the man who’d promised his forever to you not even the weekend before. you’d tried, for what it’s worth, to smile when he did, but even that was becoming less and less often.

the call of your name from the other room brings you back to reality. frightened, Bruce mutters your name. once, twice, thrice before a sharp inhale interrupts. immediately concerned for his comfort, you swipe the water from your face with the back of your hand, sniffle, and appear prompt and alert at the threshold of the bathroom.

Bruce is sitting up, if you could call the feeble attempt sitting, one elbow dug against the mattress and his entire weight leaned upon it. pale with black rings around his eyes, he appears as a ghost to you already. a ghost of the man you knew, a fading specter of your husband. but there’s a fear in the depths of his dull eyes, and his chest rises and falls so harshly that your brows knit together.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” taking a handful of steps forward, both of your hands outstretch to catch his and hold them tight. clammy and slick with perspiration, much like the rest of his exposed flesh.

his bottom lip juts out into a childish pout, eyes searching your countenance. “I- you.. where’dja go, angel?” he whispers; his voice is raspen and you wonder if he’s in pain simply speaking. “I woke up and ya weren’t here. Weren’t no one here…”

guilt racks your entire being. how could you be so selfish as to leave him? “I’m here, baby, I’m here.” you assure him, your own voice faltering a little. the last thing you wanted was to break down in front of him again, but fate was a cruel mistress who would see you broken a thousand times over. “How did you sleep?”

Bruce stares at you for a moment, before his hands slip through yours. it was strange how you almost didn’t notice, they were so bony and light now that they were like the fleeting wind wisping through your own grasp, a lot like the rest of him. if you could, you would latch on to him, but you knew it wouldn’t stop time. time, the damned thing you’d thought you had plenty of, the one thing running out for you and Bruce. you feel his palm against your cheek, caressing it, and you careen into the gentle massage. “Not so good,” he admits, drawl creating a pathetic and childish air to his words. “I don’t think I’m ever gonna sleep as good as I did Sunday night.”

you collect your bottom lip between your teeth to stifle a saddened whimper. Sunday was the first and last night the two of you had slept in the same bed, a full seven hours and fifty seven minutes that you could call your honeymoon. “Me either,” you admit with a bitter smile. your eyes fix themselves on the heap of clothes in the corner, practically erupting from the suitcase. among them lay your white wedding gown. “Me either.”

Bruce watches you, and even though he doesn’t say it, you can see the guilt on his features. he didn’t have to admit it for you to know how angry he is with himself- how selfish he feels for marrying you when he knew he didn’t have any time left. “Hey angel?”

“Yeah?”

“C’mere.” blinking, you look up to see him leaned back in the bed, arms outstretched for you.

“What do you mean?”

“Come lay here with me, I ain’t never gonna get no sleep unless I gotcha in my arms.” you start to scoff, as if the thought is insane. the last thing you should do would be to crowd him, the doctor said so. not to mention, he seems as fragile as porcelain, as if one little nick and he would shatter. he senses your hesitation, and smiles this wide and goofy grin. for a moment, he shines brighter than all the fluorescent lights that are beating down around you. “Please?”

now, how the hell were you supposed to say no to that? “All right,” you whisper, pulling yourself on to your knees on the foot of the hospital bed. you wait until he gives up a tiny space so that you may hunker to him, hugging his torso with both arms in a gentle vice. he’s neither warm nor cold, and you press your face against the expanse of his chest. the sound of his heartbeat was a welcome thump in your ear, relatively steady. “How’s this?”

Bruce breathes a sigh of content and tilts his head back, allowing his eyelids to flutter closed as he relishes your closeness, and you his. it was as if the world melts away when you hold him, and it’s only the two of you in a void vast and empty. you take a deep breath, feeling this abyss, and as comfortable as it is now, it’s only so because Bruce is here with you. fearing the day when you’re left to face it alone, you find yourself clinging tighter to him, more and more desperate for the rhythmic pumping of the organ in his chest. yours falls into sync.

“Bruce?” you’re much too glued to him to find his visage, but you imagine he’s lying, eyes closed, with his head against the pillow. “How do you feel?” you’d hoped the answer would be something along the lines of great, let’s go home! but you knew that wouldn’t happen. no, he was much too far gone for that.

“I’m real scared, angel.” and he sounds it. Bruce’s voice quivers, his breathing ragged. “I can’t go now. It just ain’t right, I still got so much to do.” your heart wrenches with each word, and you hide your face deep in his chest, hoping the perspiration dampening the fabric would camouflage the tears as they overflow from your ducts. “I mean, I ain’t never had anything to live for before and now that I do, they’re takin’ all my time away from me? That just don’t seem fair.” there’s a lump forming in your throat, and you remember what the doctor said. this was it. a few days, the week at most. one palm comes up to pet the crown of your head. “I still got so much love to give ya… and I ain’t got no time left.”

you feel your stomach turn. an involuntary whimper parts your lips. the lump in your throat is making breathing difficult, but you pull back to look up at him, shaking your head. “Then…” you trail off, sniffing as you do. you wished you could wipe your tears as they stream over your cheeks, but you opt for cradling his face in both of your palms instead, pressing your forehead to his. “Then you have to just get better. You get better, and then you can give me all the love you have. Every day. Until we’re both old and grey. So you just get better, hear me?”

Bruce’s hazel eyes go wide, staring into yours. they’re wet, tears beginning to slip past the barrier, but you didn’t want to see him cry. it hurt badly enough seeing him rot away in this bed while you sat on the sidelines, unable to stop it. “Get better.” you whisper, weak and needy, before pressing your chapped couplet to his forehead.

he sniffles, twin tears streaking both cheeks, and with a huff, he wraps you in a bear hug, burying his face in the crook of your neck. you can feel the stream of his sadness as it runs hot over your throat, but you reach up with both hands, digits delving into his dark tendrils to comb them with gentle strokes. “Are you gonna… stay?” his voice is low and muffled against your skin. “Please don’t leave me, angel. I ain’t got much, but you. I need you.”