Page 53 of A Wistful Symphony

“No, nothing I can—oh, bloody hell, I’m such an idiot,” I deride, slapping a palm on my face. I’ve been sitting on dozens of messages you’ve sent me all week, too wounded to check them. “My phone. There might be something there.”

“Super! Check it now,” Astro urges me.

I scroll through my inbox.

I’m sorry, Eric, I didn’t mean what I said

Please talk to me

I’m really sorry please don’t leave me hanging like this

Eric please don’t leave me alone

There’s a plethora of messages similar to those.

It’s my fault. All my fault. I abandoned you at your worst, and my silence was the last push to your downfall.

All because of my silly wounded pride, my stupid ambitions.

My mouth dries reading it again, keen on any details or wording that could give me an idea of your whereabouts. Something. Anything.

No such luck.

All the messages are from over two days ago, but there’s a single voicemail. From yesterday.

“Hey Eric. I know I’ve been saying that a lot, but I’m deeply sorry for last time.

And the times before. It wasn’t fair to you, and you shouldn’t have to take my shit like this.

Anyway, your audition is tomorrow, right?

I wish you the best of luck. Not that you need it.

Don’t worry about me. I’m going to stay away and let you concentrate.

Maybe be alone for a while, somewhere quiet, where I can think.

Or forget. I don’t know. But I’ll be back for us to properly celebrate your admittance at the Royal Academy, okay? Bye.”

My eyes are watery, and I wipe them with the sleeve of my shirt. I try not to dwell in spiralling thoughts and concentrate on any clues your message might contain.

Stay alone for a while. Somewhere you can think.

Of course.

“There’s a unit with a broken lock at the self-storage, where I go when I want some quiet time.”

You said that the first time I went to your flat, a lifetime ago.

“How far is it to the self-storage units?”

Astro frowns but doesn’t argue. “Ten to fifteen minutes. Why?”

I give my watch one last look and realise it’s a quarter to eleven. My throat tightens. If I go, I’m going to miss the train.

A second passes, then another.

Fuck it.

“Take us there, and step on it,” I say, getting on his back seat.

Astro rides like his wheels are on fire, and I’m glad the streets are empty enough for him not to run anyone over. I hold onto his skinny sides, but my hands shake and my heart hammers so hard I’m sure Astro feels it on his back.

My mind blasts at the speed of sound. The intrusive thoughts jumble together with the ones about my audition.

I’ve just done the stupidest thing of my life.

The bike is going to crash and I’m going to die.

There won’t be another chance at the RAM.

I’m going to catch flesh-eating-bacteria.

That audition was my last hope. A roaring cacophony threatens to drive me mad.

Watching my dreams go to waste fills my chest with a void I cannot repair.

But losing you would be far worse.

When we get there, I can’t form words. I spread sanitiser all over my hands and arms, and attempt to lower my heart rate with a few breathing exercises. Astro is restless but doesn’t complain.

Once I’m able to speak, I order, “Look for a unit with a bust lock.”

We roam the place desperately, checking row after row of self-storage units. A maze of coloured metal gates shuts tight on our faces. Thankfully, the attendant is not here to complain about the shady individuals peeping around.

“Eric, here,” Astro shouts after what seems like hours.

Fearing the thump in my ears might burst what’s left of my eardrums, I sprint, barely able to see what’s in front of me. My body is rigid. Droplets of cold sweat prickle on the back of my neck as I stare at the orange gate.

“Want me to open it?” Astro asks, glancing at my terrified expression. I nod.

Inside the limited space, there’s a foldable chair, a tiny speaker, what’s left of a six-pack, and you, sprawled on the floor in the most crooked of positions with a disgusting trail of vomit coming out of your mouth.

I gawk, trying my hardest not to pass out.

Please, let it not be too late.

“Shit! Fuck, shit!” Astro puts his fingers on the side of your neck. “I can’t feel anything. Do you know CPR?”

My hesitant voice almost refuses to come out. “Yeah.”

“Super. Get on it while I call an ambulance.”

Wide-eyed, I tentatively get closer, every inch of me trembling as the sting of tears clouds my sight.

Your golden hair is damp, caked with yellow lumps of whatever meal was your last. Skin blueish, covered in a profusion of sweat staining your hoodie and jeans.

Your limbs are tossed in such a skewed way that they seem broken, and your eyelids are half-open, showing only the whites of your eyes.

A ghoulish resemblance of what you used to be.

This is not my Andrew. This is a fucking nightmare.

I kneel by your side, turn you on your back with the utmost of care, and wipe your mouth with the hem of my shirt. Every fibre of my being screams not to do it, but I need to keep you alive. I pinch your nose and open your mouth. The acrid smell is so nauseating I feel like barfing myself.

Hold on, Eric, just a bit.

Taking a deep breath, I place my lips on yours, the horrid taste almost making me pull back.

He’s going to give you a stomach bug! Parasites!

Hepatitis! Cholera! I blow air inside your lungs.

The most gruesome kiss I’ve ever given you.

After that, I jab my palms against your chest, again and again, trying to restore some colour to your cheeks. It’s not working.

I blow air into your mouth. One, two times. Jab your chest with the heel of my hand. One, two … until thirty. Blow air again. Pneumonia! Tuberculosis! Compress your chest once more. Cry.

I’m not sure how long this takes. Round after round of the most agonising deed I’ve ever done.

“Come on, Andrew, don’t die on me.” I breathe into your lungs once more, my tears falling over your cheeks.

Astro trades with me, and I squat at the corner of the storage unit, trembling like the pulled strings of a violin. I pray he does a better job than me. Pray for you to take a breath and open your eyes.

When we hear the sirens in the distance, I’m still bracing on my knees. Astro tells me to take over the CPR and runs to the paramedics. I press your chest one time after another, my sight a blurred mess. I blow air into your lungs. My mind screeches, but I do not stop.

All I want is for you to live. To smile, kiss me and say sweet things into my ear. Just once.

Please, God, don’t take him from me.

The paramedics have to pull me by my arms to separate me from you. One of them puts you on a stretcher and into the rear of the ambulance, while the other checks your vitals.

“It’s weak, but he has a pulse,” the paramedic says. “Who’s going to give us info?”

“Him.” Astro points at me. “He knows more about Andrew.”

I climb into the back of the ambulance before he finishes speaking.

A woman asks, “Do you know what he’s taken?”

“Oxy, probably. Maybe heroin,” I mutter.

She nods and fishes a vial of medication from her kit.

The ambulance takes off. I hold your hand like holding onto dear life while a paramedic asks me a multitude of questions.

My head is in disarray, but I do my best. I breathe and breathe, watching the IV do its work, seeing them put a tube through your throat and pump air into your lungs. Hoping it’s not all for nothing.

I grasp your hand harder and cry. There’s a blister pack of anxiolytics in my pocket, and I swallow a tab dry. It doesn’t help much. I grit my teeth, waiting for any kind of response. A twitch of fingers, a tremble of eyelids. Nothing.

Please, God. I know we don’t talk much, but please, hear me now.

Once we arrive at the hospital, they fly your stretcher through the corridor. I try to follow you, but the paramedics don’t let me. I fight, squirming against their arms, screaming your name as you disappear behind the A&E double doors. They hold me.

You’re gone.