I THINK I can hear my name being said from far away. I’m not sure. I’m trying to open my eyes, but my eyelids feel like they’re made of steel. I fight against the pain, which is intense, and manage to open them at least a little. I can kind of see John’s slightly blurry face.
“Damien,” he says. His hands are around my shoulders and his fingers are digging into my skin. “What the hell?”
I try to shake my head, but I can’t. Ugh, not this again. I won’t know which type it is until it’s over, and I don’t want to scare him. Which doesn’t seem to be working, because I can feel his grip on me tighten.
I try to move my hand so I can touch him and reassure him, but my limbs aren’t responding. Then my eyelids win, my eyes close again, and my head tilts back, and I can feel something on my face, though I’m not sure what it is.
The entire thing lasts a little under a minute, I think, but my perception of time is always distorted when the seizures happen.
Sighing, I open my eyes and try to focus. I can kind of see John’s face, but it looks like it’s behind a thin plastic film.
“I’m okay,” I say. My words echo in the room, my voice sounds foreign, my speech affected.
John scoffs. “What the fuck was that?”
“A partial seizure,” I say. I’m starting to sound like myself again. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
He nods. He’s frowning. “Is that what it’s always like?”
I shake my head. “No, usually, it’s a lot worse, to be honest. I’m surprised—”
“What about the bleeding?”
I look at him. “What bleeding?”
“Your nose,” he says. “It’s still bleeding. Is that normal? Does that always happen?”
I touch my face and feel the sticky blood. This isn’t good. This isn’t good at all, and it isn’t meant to happen. It hasn’t happened since I was a kid, when nosebleeds during seizures were surprisingly common.
I swallow. “I have to go,” I say.
“Where are you going?”
“Home,” I say. I look at him for a second, and he looks so worried, I feel bad that I have to leave him. It’s not like I can text him to tell him it’s going to be okay either. He’s just going to have to wait until I come pick up my paycheck on Friday.
“Are you going to be okay?”
I look away from him. “Probably. I really do have to go, though.”
I stand up before I remember that I’m not wearing any clothes. John follows me to his kitchen, then helps me get my clothes from the dryer. He watches me put them on, saying nothing, doing nothing, just standing there, leaning against the wall with his eyebrows creased and his arms crossed in front of his chest.
I wipe my nose off with the back of my hand before I look at him. “I’m okay,” I say.
He doesn’t say anything.
“I have to go,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
I put my arms around him and hold him close. He doesn’t hug me back; he doesn’t move. I hate I’ve upset him.
“So I have to wait for a week to know if you’re okay?”
“I wish there was a way for me to tell you,” I say. “John—”
“Can I come with you?”
I look at him and try to think of reasons to object, but all the ones I can think of, and they mostly have proper names, just don’t seem important enough.
“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, come with me.”
WE DON’T talk at all until we’ve reached the station where I have to get off. I’m starting to get scared. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all, maybe I should’ve told him to stay home. But that wouldn’t have been fair after how worried I was about him, considering that I’m not even going to play a part in that.
My steps are hurried and I’m not looking back at him, but I can hear him walking behind me. When I step out of the metro station I can’t hear him anymore.
I turn around and look for him, among all the faces coming from the metro station, but he’s not there.
I’m alone.