“Hey, what’s wrong?”
He was still on the bed, curled up tightly, with his knees locked to his chest.
“Hey, talk to me. Look at me.”
My prosthetic ghosts over his tensed hands, and I see his face lift up. His eyes are red. He shivers, a tremor rattling through his body.
“I’m here,” my voice softens, like coaxing an animal from a trap.
His pupils pin–he knows I’m here to keep him safe, but he needs to ride out the crossed signals of danger and anxiety.
“Breathe,” I whisper. “In and out. Breathe with me.”
His arms uncurl from his legs, and he starts to reach out. I know what he needs. My prosthetic inches towards him, and his hands wrap around the cool metal, tracing every fine surface detail, every weld, wire, bolt, and brace, etching it into his mind. Grounding himself. His eyes squeeze shut as if he’s trying to force the feeling out through the cold connections.
“In and out,” I repeat, reaching my other hand to rub his back. He shudders again, and I feel the expanding and contracting of his ribcage, every tendon and ligament desperately holding on to sanity.
Under those earth-dark eyes lies a pain that no medicine can cure. The pain of a person in mental turmoil. A mind that attacks itself when it gets too quiet, too peaceful. He combats this by constantly keeping it busy. But when too much is piled on–stress, worry, and God forbid the hour before sleeping–it wanders. It goes to bad places. He begs for the pain to stop–he doesn’t like to use his words, but his eyes are judgment enough.
“You’re okay.” It’s as if I’m reassuring myself. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
I hear him swallow, his heartbeat slowing down again. His hands trail over my fingers, bending the joints and gently arcing the plates.
“I’m sorry,” he rasps.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for.” I lean forward, placing a kiss on the top of his forehead. “Everything’s alright now.”
His eyes close again as he grips my prosthetic tight, holding it close like a security blanket. It goes from the crook of his neck to his chest and back up to my shoulder. His skin cools to the touch, and I know he appreciates it.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he keeps repeating under his breath. It’s like a prayer, a confession.
“It’s okay.”
“Sorry I’m like this, I know–I know it’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid at all.”
“I’m overreacting–”
“Everyone needs help sometimes.” I’m pulling the words out of nowhere. The words he needs to hear, even if they can’t reach him just yet. “I’m not going anywhere. Okay?”
His nails are digging into my prosthetic, as if he’s trying to rip it open and nest inside of its computer boards. If that made him feel better, I wouldn’t mind if he did. Just to ease the pain of existence for a moment.
He said that sometimes–that I was like a dream to him. A kind of savior that came at the right time to protect him. Still clawing onto life with whatever strength he had left, not wanting to give up, not wanting to give in–not yet. He said we went through somewhat similar things–maybe not exactly the same, but enough to understand the pain of loneliness. To understand what it’s like to look up at the sky at night and forget that everyone else is looking up, too.
As the night passes, I just hold him close. No matter what happens, I’m bound to protect him. I love him. I truly do. So I’ll do whatever he needs to make him feel safe–I’ll hold on in those rough moments so he can still smile.