an instant photo of a bruised knee [https://i1.wp.com/theendandtheinstant.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/11/Instant-12-1500x1500-COMPRESSED.jpg?w=1500&ssl=1]
“Told you what?” Lark asks, his voice barely audible.
“That you wanted to kill yourself. Or that you tried to kill yourself.”
Lark nods but doesn’t speak.
Oli remembers his boyfriend telling him about Lark, about how scared he was when he found the stash of pills while Lark was crashing on his sofa. Reed had taken Lark to the hospital, forced him to be held as a psychiatric emergency, called Lark’s parents. The way Reed tells it, Lark was tearful and determined when Reed tried to talk to him about his intentions, then hysterical about Reed’s interference. At the hospital, he’d slipped into a dissociated silence and refused to speak to anyone or even look at Reed.
Oli had let Reed go over and over that awful night with him, reassured him while he picked through the events on repeat, over the phone and lying in bed. Reed wasn’t sure if he had done the right thing, of course, and berated himself for pushing Lark into medical debt and drama unnecessarily. Oli reassured him that the only truly bad outcome would have been Lark’s death, that Reed had made the right choices to stop that. He tried to stop Reed speculating about what could have been better, what worse.
“You didn’t see him,” Reed said, defensive in the face of his own doubt. He’d struggled to give more details, but his blunt descriptors–that Lark was so thin, thinner than he was in school, that he looked like he didn’t sleep even though he slept all day, the tears and the blankness–could never on their own justify Reed’s need to do something drastic.
This had happened almost a year ago. Lark looks, still, fragile enough that Oli can see why Reed was distressed. But Lark is there, talking to him, and sometimes smiling, talking about the past. Oli thinks he can tell Reed in the morning about how well he is, really.
Lark had almost talked himself out of seeing Reed again. It was hard to think about the worst places his mind went to, and one of his darkest nights had started on the sofa he is meant to be sleeping on, listening to Reed ask him what he was thinking, what he was planning to do. But he had known Reed for a long time, since his first year of high school. He had hoped Reed might be able to remember the long years before despair had made him desperate. That he might speak to Reed and remember who he used to be, see the through-lines that connect Lark to that past.
Reed was kind, of course. He was glad to see Lark, and he dredged up old jokes, the names of shared friends. There was an edge of pity, though, that made Lark self-conscious. He’d excused himself to the bathroom and checked his face in the mirror, looking for some obvious flaw.
It was just him, though. The line of his cheekbones, the shape of his lips, his flyaway hairs, all vectors pointing to that terrible night he and Reed wanted to forget.
And even Oli knows. Even Oli can see it.
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A badly bruised knee visible through destressed jeans. [https://i2.wp.com/theendandtheinstant.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/11/Connective-Tissue-1500x1500-COMPRESSED.jpeg?w=1500&ssl=1]
I was installed in a guest room in an old-fashioned ranch house around Hayhurst that Jules called Quinn’s, though they lived there together and Quinn only ever called it home. Still feverish and sick to my stomach, I went to sleep almost immediately and stayed unconscious until the next day.
Quinn woke me, knocking on the bedroom door. He was barefoot and spindly looking in ripped jeans that had crossed from distressed to destroyed.
He came in and deposited a tall glass on the bedside table, asked how I was feeling while I blinked and struggled up to consciousness. It took everything I had to lift the water to my lips, put it back down.
Sorry. I should get up. Should be going, I mumbled, realizing it was late, almost noon. Get out of your hair.
Quinn just smiled, tilted his head so his dark hair cascaded over his shoulder. Is this not working for you? he asked. Jules said they recommended lots of rest.
Sure. But I need to— I can’t put you out like this.
Lark—
I don’t have much, but I know I owe you for gas. And Jules bought me all those electrolyte drinks.
That’s okay. You don’t need to pay us back. I think you should stay here until you’re actually better.
That could be like a month. The doctor said weeks.
Quinn sat at the side of the bed, shrugged good-naturedly. Okay. So you rest for a few weeks. You don’t have a job. You don’t have to be anywhere. To be honest, I don’t think you could be anywhere right now.
I covered my eyes with my hands and felt the movement in every muscle, shoulders to wrists. Quinn was right: I couldn’t have spent a day on my feet, couldn’t have gotten through even the shortest and easiest retail shift.
We’re friends, right? Quinn asked; a bemused half-smile pulled at only one side of his mouth.
I wanted to say yes, to think I could make that commitment, but it seemed ridiculous. You’ve only known me for like a day. An hour of a day.
I know, Quinn said. I know. But you need some help right now, and Jules and I like you, so we’re fast-tracking, okay? You can tell us what your favorite color is or whatever later. Are you up for eating anything?
I shook my head. The uneasiness in my stomach made me think about the tube running into Quinn’s nose, prompted a pang of guilt that I was in his house, that he was looking after me when he must have his own problems. I was fuzzy and slow and somehow still tired after all the sleep, and it was only then that I strung together that he wasn’t in a wheelchair. I blurted: You can walk?
Quinn looked at me warily. He wasn’t awkward, but he was frowning, his face dark. Uh-huh, he said. Or I can today. It’s okay around the house. I can sit down if I need to.
Sorry, I said, embarrassed already by my bluntness. I’m just—I’m worried. Are you okay? It’s like none of my business, but—am I putting you in danger? Being sick here?
Quinn laughed at that. No, no. I’ve had mono. I’m immune to you. And I have a problem with my connective tissue. It’s genetic. I’m not like sick-sick. Okay? Don’t worry about me.
Connective tissue?
Joints and skin and the bits in the middle. That hold things together.
I nodded at that, though I didn’t understand really. It would be a while before I did, and longer before I knew the danger Quinn actually lived with: fragile skin always ready to rip open, blood vessels that could rupture and kill him for no reason. Spontaneous bruises sometimes appeared in strange places, warnings of worse to come: a purpling stripe over his cheek, blue fingerprint marks over his shoulders, fresh red blood just under the skin of his stomach that prompted a visit to the ER.
I didn’t know how important it was.