Page 12 of Grave Beginnings

He said nothing.

“I signed paperwork at the hospital that makes me liable for you,” I reminded him.

“I didn’t ask for that,” he snapped, the first words he’d spoken to me since we’d picked him up.

“And if it had been Grandpa? It would have been okay for you to run around while he’s responsible for you?”

“I’m not a kid.”

He was, but I wouldn’t argue. I’d been in the same place as him myself decades ago. We walked, and I wondered if he had a destination in mind. Grandpa’s place wasn’t on the normal bus route, but maybe with his phone recharged, he’d called for a ride-share. I kept pace with him, regardless. The chill in the air brought back a lot of memories from the time I’d been on the streets looking for a safe place to sleep.

“Where will you go?” I finally asked.

“Home, eventually.”

“Okay. Can I give you a ride, then?”

We kept walking. I cursed myself for not bringing a coat of some kind, but Ivan didn’t have one either.

“They told me you were dead,” he whispered.

Those words made me pause for a half second, my heart flipping over with a lot of untouched trauma. “That doesn’t surprise me.” Even while it hurt like a knife in my gut. “They kicked me out ‘cause I got caught kissing a boy.”

He gasped and stopped; his eyes wide as he stared at me. “They said it was a car accident, and why they won’t let me get my license.”

“Sorry. Still here and queer.”

He studied me for a few more seconds before turning around and walking again. I followed.

“Grandpa never said anything,” Ivan said after another block of silence.

“They cut him and Grandma out when they took me in. They didn’t even show up at Grandma’s funeral ‘cause Grandpa wouldn’t give in to the demand I not come.”

“When Grandma died, I was in rehab.” He flashed me his leftwrist and the long, white, raised scars running down the inside of it.

Fuck. Those had to have been deep. I steadied myself mentally with ahe’s still here, while trying to keep the worry off my face. “Your release papers didn’t have a list of any medications you need.” I’d glanced through them after he’d gone to change into pajamas.

“Dad won’t let me take anything.”

I took a minute to process that. “You obviously have depression. Why wouldn’t he let you see if medication can help? I’ve been on meds since Grandma died and they really helped me. I couldn’t stop crying and thinking all the terrible what-ifs. The meds quieted that, and let me have better control.”

“You’re not a zombie from medication?”

I didn’t mention I’d seen real zombies, but understood what he meant. There was a terrible stigma around taking medication for mental health.

“No. I think some medication can do that if it’s not the right med for you. But for me, it really helped steady me. I still cry. I still laugh. Nothing is forced. I’m just not in that endless wasteland of ‘the world hates me, so why should I be here’ mentality.”

I took a long breath and let it out. “It’s not always perfect. Some days, it’s really hard to get out of bed.”

Becoming variant and being forced over to SED without my consent had made the last few days rough, but I wouldn’t share that, since he’d been dealing with being variant his entire life. “I’ve been through some therapy that helps when the meds aren’t enough. I haven’t had SI in a long time.”

He kept walking, staying a few feet ahead of me. From time to time, I thought I caught a sniffle. Was he crying, or just cold?

“How about we head back to Grandpa’s?” I asked. “It’s cold out. If he wakes up and finds us gone, he’ll worry.”

“He’ll eventually forgive me,” Ivan whispered.

“Grandpa?”