Goodnight, Sweet Prince

The searing white of the hospital lights flickered on, burning into the back of Lucas’ eyes for the last time. Three hundred and seventy-two days; he had been in the same city, the same hospital, the same room, the same bed for three hundred and seventy-two days. He had met all the doctors and nurses and knew all their names by heart. He knew their daily routines like the back of his hand.

A light clanging noise rattled in his ears, and forced Lucas to open his eyes. On an ordinary tray, the colour of butterscotch and cream, was a tin can of the soft, yellow, squares of pineapple he had every day for the past three hundred and seventy-two days. Stood above the can was a stout woman. She held out a plastic fork towards the, still half-asleep, tan man who was laid down in the rock hard bed.

“Lucas.” A light voice cut through the air, Lucas’ eyes widened and the slow, but steady, thump of his heart skipped a beat. The familiar voice, usually soft and full of honey, was short and cold. “You have to eat. Dr. Shilbowski is worried about you. You haven’t been eating.” There was no response, for even after the sinking feeling had set into Lucas’ chest, he stayed silent and still. His small, raspy, and almost lifeless breath being the only thing that informed the nurse he was still alive.

Furrowed eyebrows and a twitching lip covered the pain and fear behind her eyes. Swiftly, she tucked a lock of golden hair behind her chalky ear and walked out, leaving the small plastic fork and can of pineapple behind with Lucas.

The crushing silence forced Lucas deeper into his bed, the energy escaping his body in a tidal wave. How did it get this bad? Why did it take him two years to see somebody about what was happening? Rafael had told him for two years to go see Dr. Shilbowski but he refused. Lucas was as stubborn as a mule and it had landed him here, an empty white room with empty white walls and empty white furniture with a white bed that would soon, like the rest of the things in the room, be empty.

Lucas’ heavy eyelids creeped slowly closed as the looming iron door to the sad, small room Lucas had been inhabiting for the past three hundred and seventy-two days creaked open. Before long, the bed shifted as a new weight joined Lucas.

A familiar rough, cool brown hand rested on Lucas’ arm. The cold, light grip pulled him back into consciousness but his eyes remained closed. He couldn’t bear the thought of looking into his lover's face, not with the knowledge that it would be the last time.

There was a choked sigh and then Rafael finally spoke. “Lucas I…” The tall, dark man began. Rafael was twenty-eight years old, but the stress of Lucas being sick, and finally hospitalized way too late, had painted his face with age. White hairs had sprinkled themself among his black beard. Lucas would make fun of Rafael and started calling him patchy when they first appeared, that was, when Lucas could still talk.

Hours seemed to pass and Lucas could barely stay conscious. He drifted in and out of reality, wanting to stay, he wanted to hear Rafael talk. He wanted to row down the River Styx with his partner’s voice all around him.

“I’m so sorry…” The once smooth voice Lucas loved was strained and wispy, as if the fear, lack of sleep, and his constant need to stay strong had finally gotten too much to handle. The voice didn’t sound like his. “I-I should have called the doctor before it was too late. I should have pushed you to get checked more. I...I should have tried harder. Now you’re going to leave all because of my neglect and laziness.”

The hand that gripped Lucas’ arm stayed put as Rafael’s body hunched forward. Tears stained the ill-favoured sheets. Lucas had seen Rafael cry once before, when they had to put Nelly, his old childhood horse, down. The crying man flinched as he felt a hand, cold as death itself, landed on the edge of his. Lucas has used what was left of his fleeting strength to feel his touch for the last time, to comfort him for the last time. To make it known that none of this is his fault. The thin, pale-brown hand was soon covered, Rafael attempted to warm it up. The chill of his boyfriend’s hand had frightened him. Lucas had always been so warm; the life was truly almost gone.

Slowly, the slightly curving line on the monitor to the right of Lucas’ bed, which displayed his heartbeat, flattened. The sound of ringing stayed in Rafael’s ears after the nurses had turned it off. He refused to let go of the dead boy’s hand. It was the last thing he had. There should be no death for twenty-seven year old boys with far more potential than they know what to do with.

Tears clouded Rafael’s view of the lump of flesh he once had loved, and continued to love, as he leant down and pressed his warm lips to Lucas’ forehead. He flinched at the deathly chill that ran down his spine but kissed the man anyway.

With what strength he had, Rafael uttered a final goodbye; “Goodnight, sweet Prince.”