Honeysuckle Lies

Honeysuckle Lies

Her grave is plotted next to a young boy, he was only five when he died, and his name was Oliver. He keeps my love good company. Each week I come to lay some honeysuckle flowers. Day after day, week after week, I’ve finally started getting better. I’ve learned that the promise of true love is real, it’s the getting to keep that love forever that’s the sticky sweet lie. A lie that everyone tells. A beautifully enticing honeysuckle lie.

As I watch her, cooking, cleaning, I noticed, she always has a smile on her face. Her laugh is radiant and almost feels contagious. She starts to cough and splutter as she says she’s getting sick. She is a sophisticated young woman with the whole world at her feet. She is cheerful, laughing and exploding with happiness. She eats fairy floss and sings in the shower. She looks at me with love, I look back with more. Being with her, I feel a state of peace, a silly feeling inside. But bubbly or fluttery I cannot decide. It is delightful to be around her.

She takes no notice of how much I love her. She gets sicker and sicker as the days pass by, but never asks for help. I bought her medicine, and still, she gets no better. I can feel her energy draining away with every, single, movement. Her eyes are like stars in the sky, sparkling when you’d least expect it. Days go by, she is still no better. By now that is no surprise. She has feverish skin, we go to doctors, they say nothing of any import and send us on our way. Her sweetest smile is what makes me high, although now I see it less and less. She makes an ordinary life so vibrant, her smile is mesmerizing. I promise I’m going to marry her one day.

One night she is sickest of all. She faints in my arms, I catch her with unease and worry. I lay her on the couch in hope she will be soon to awake, tears begin to well in my eyes as I feel my throat constricting. I almost feel like it’s the worst day of my life. The tears are pouring out of my eyes at an uncontrollable rate, like a stream in the winter. Falling like snowflakes, one after another, they’re all different. She is my first thought in the morning, and I hold her in my last breath of every evening. I need her more and more every day, crave her more and more every second.

I call the ambulance. They come with sirens and flashing lights, I lose my focus in the midst of a panic attack. It all goes by in a blur, the next thing I know we are sitting in an office. We are told to spend her final time with loved ones. We are told not to fight because it will be a waste of her energy, it will just make her pass even faster. The doctors want her to be as comfortable as they can get her, because she’s going to die.

As days pass, she refuses to believe the truth, refuses to listen to doctor’s orders. They specifically said that there’d be no point in doing any treatment. Attempting to explain that they have medical degrees is absolutely pointless, but I guess her uncanny determination was one of the things that I fell in love with. She sits in the car, on her way to the first treatment of chemotherapy. A bright blue pair of gloves rest by her feet, its odd seeing as its twenty degrees outside. We were told that’s the only way to beat the pins and needles, two pairs of yellow tinged socks are in my handbag.

She sits in her chair, book in hand, smile on face. I sit in my chair, hands shaking, mind racing. She sits there content, clear tubes running into her arms and chest, buried beneath her skin. Coloured wires attached to her head and fingers, none of this fazes her. A smile still rests proudly on her face. Her perseverance and faith in all this technology is a little too far-fetched. Driving home is quiet, she sleeps, shaking, body almost convulsing. Jumper stretched out, hugging her shoulders. Gloves on her hands, sweat beads forming, then rolling.

At home, she crawls into bed, I plant a single kiss upon her head. Closing the door quietly, running down the stairs as silently as possible. Tears settle and pool in my eyes, then fall down my face leaving burned trails behind. I choke on the pain in my throat then fall to my knees in a thud. Hands fly up to my chest and press roughly. The light in the room brightens, then disappears completely. My body falls the rest of the way to the floor.

* * *

I awake to retching, a pungent smell fills my nostrils, prodding at my gag reflex. Coaxing at it until I gag, only frantic thoughts hold back the follow through. I climb up the chair that sits beside me, racing to her room. She is sat with her head in toilet bowl. Her arms haven’t retained enough strength to flush the toilet let alone get herself back into bed. I scoop her up and put her in the bath, I set a pillow behind her head. A towel wraps her in like a burrito. A singular glass of water rests on the bedside table, untouched. I slip her in between the velvety rose-coloured sheets, then return my own bed.

I climb out of my off-white bed sheets, desperately searching for a glass of water. My peripheral vision catches a sparkling clean bench as I enter the kitchen. I place my now empty glass on the bench, rattling through my memories to figure out when exactly I cleaned the kitchen. I strain my brain, thinking through everything I can. Nothing. My ears tune in while my brain sits, attempting to sort out this conundrum, I almost get scared at the sound of a vacuum blaring. Hesitantly, I follow the eerie sound to her room. Her bed is made to an almost pristine state, and she’s vacuuming the floor. The windows behind her have the sun beaming through, small rainbows dance on her face as I stand there, completely shocked. Yesterday she couldn’t hold her own head up, now she’s cleaning the house. A bottle of glass cleaner still vacationing on the lower windowsill. What was an untouched glass of water is now empty, shattered and taking up a new residence tied up in a garbage bag. I’m frozen in confusion and a tablespoons worth of fear as she begins packing up the cleaning supplies. She is dressed and up, yesterday she was NOT. It takes my disoriented brain at least ten minutes to register the mop sleeping in a bucket of discoloured water. The bathroom tiles sparkle a smile at me, almost mocking my speechless state.

I’m tempted to ask her about it, my mind can’t keep up with all the changes. But doing that might put her off, so I just go along with it. I’ll continue to be confused and frustrated into oblivion for her happiness, for as long as I need to be. I will burn so that later she may have a life of light. This woman is the reason for my existence. I grab her arms and recite something I wrote her “She’s imprinted into my brain like a tarnished photograph. She’s got me intoxicated on her breath like an entire bottle of whiskey. She’s fiery like a phoenix yet studded with jet black diamonds. It’s opal blue eyes and cherry red lips. It’s a mind as sweet as a straight cut sugar IV. It’s a hidden side, a secret buried beneath purple rose bushes. It’s a cotton candy exterior, with deep sassy-red horns. It’s she that’s going to be the death of me. Imagining a boat, just sailing away with her. A yacht, just for the two of us. A private jet, a private location for our destination. A life away, with just her. She is a potent alcoholic beverage, one hundred percent true, because I’m shadow kissed. Completely lost in oblivion.” I stay silent for what feels like forever.

She lets a single tear fall, shoots her arm out for my shoulder and grasps it hard enough to leave small finger shaped bruises. Her lips drop the quietest “Lucy…” and with that she falls to her knees, just like she did last time. Everything goes by in slow motion this time. And this time, I didn’t catch her. Guilt and horror rips through me like a tornado in a valley, what have I done? I fumble with my fingers, pressing the numbers for an ambulance. I can’t think straight, I can’t do anything right. The loud knock on the door jolts my attention in fright. For three seconds I just stare at it, thinking that maybe I have telekinetic abilities. I finally urge myself off the floor to unlock the brown hardwood door.

“Where is she?” the tall paramedic demands in the kindest voice he can muster. I guess he has no time for pleasantries.

“She’s still on the floor. She looks cold.” I worry about her still, I hope he has a blanket for her. The shortest of the paramedics wheels in the gurney while I stand off to the side, not really knowing what to do.

* * *

Waiting in the hospital has always been the worst part of all of this. Standing, sitting, thinking. Worrying, hoping and hyperventilating. I’ve had enough practice being in hospitals, I should have all this down pat by now. Anyone else would have. Pacing back and forth, not having any family or friends to call. Forcing myself to think the worst so I’m either left with being right or having my spirits lifted when I finally get informed on what’s happened. Several doctors pass by my anxiety ridden self before one addresses me with all intentions of helping me. His aura is not reassuring, his vibe is even less. “Bishop, Lucy bishop?” I scramble to my feet in a matter of milliseconds. He takes me away to talk in silence, so he has my full attention.

‘We put her on life support, in order to keep her alive, we had no choice. The damage done by her cancer is more that substantial. I am here to inform you that we are at the end of this chapter.’ Those words, those venomous, poisonous words that the doctor spat at me were rattling around in my brain. The way he said it infuriated me beyond belief. ‘…we are at the end of this chapter.’ I hated him for saying that, still do. I would do anything to stop this chapter from ending, make her life into a trilogy, then a movie series. I left her at the hospital to rest, now I’m sitting here, glass bottle in hand. Alone, I really shouldn’t be alone right now.

'The sun is here, yet has no meaning without your definition. The native flowers won’t bloom without your definition. How could they? The cows won’t smell like home. The paddocks won’t seem as green and inviting. The horsehair scent won’t be as fulfilling. Chickens won’t be as scary. I won’t be as okay, and you won’t be here!' I write my thoughts out, pour them onto the page. My heart has a burning ache, growling at me. My hands are dancing about uncontrollably, like ants are crawling beneath my skin. The only coping mechanism I have is knowing greatly, how to party until I drop. I guess that’s where I’m headed.

* * *

The walk here was exhilarating, calming. The nights air running through my lungs was almost unexplainable, it felt like being reborn. The lights in this place are red, a small layer of fog is being spurted across the marble black dance floor. There is graffiti on every wall and door here except for one, a giant mirror. On the stage next to it are three women, introduced as Daisy, Cinnamon and Caramel. Their stunning moves and spins, even the occasional flip has the audience entranced into throwing hundred-dollar bills at them. I try not to pay too much attention to them. She wouldn’t like that.

I make a beeline for the back room, registered clients only. The back room has a red and blue light casting sparkles across the black leather couch that sits in the corner. One lovely lady, the only exotic dancer that has been permitted to entertain the men behind this curtain is making her way around to everyone here with a singular silver tray. I make my way in and put myself in the only chair that is left. She notices my entrance and makes her own way over, offering me the silver tray. Three little white lines are sleeping on the mirror like surface, a small mountain of snow off to the side. My mind spins and argues with itself. 'Do it.' 'Don’t, she wouldn’t like that.' 'Just do it.' I reach my arm up and grab the rolled dollar bill, placing it at the tip of my nostril and closing off the other one.

As soon as the feathery dust enters my lungs, I feel it. Sinking back into my chair, enjoying and savoring every bit of this glorious moment in time. A younger man and woman nod in my direction, she has curly black hair and deep purple lips, long luscious eyelashes and is wearing a black dress. He whispers a small something in her ear and she just looks graciously at me. Like I should feel lucky. She hops up from her seat as, what I’m guessing is her partner, watches intently. “I’m Paris, me and my partner were wondering if you would like to join us?”

I stumble over my words and just decide to nod my head and extend my hand, “Lucy,” I say and she grabs my hand in hers, soft and delicate. Pulling me up instead of shaking it. My confusion only grows, she quietly leads me over to where she was sitting. At this point I don’t even know what is happening, so I just go on with it.

“This is Z,” Paris says.

I wonder if that is nickname or his real name, “Lucy,” I say again. I feel like a broken record. Paris must have noticed my confusion, because she cups my face in her hands and pulls me in for a long, passionate kiss. Slow but seductive. Now I understand everything.

* * *

I don’t get home until about three AM. After coming down from my high and having a shower because my panties are still a little damp from Paris and Z, I smash my face into the pillows of my bed. Not awaking until eleven that morning solely because my phone won’t stop making monotonous noises, “Hello.” I answer bluntly with a noticeable amount of venom and frustration soaking my tone.

“Hello Miss Bishop, this is Dr. steel, head of the intensive care unit. I am making his call regarding Caroline Jaymes.” My brain dissipates into a fuzzy-pug state. I can’t think, can’t breathe. “we suggest you come and spend as much time as possible with her. She doesn’t have long left.” The only words my tongue can muster up the strength to say are, “Okay, thank you.” Then I hang up. I dart from corner to corner, making a rushed list in my head. Socks, shoes, clean clothes, phone, keys, wallet.

The hospital is quiet, nothing but beeping and the sound of respirators, a few old people coughing. The click of my boots on the hallway floor is prominent, loud and sharp. I really don’t know what to do with myself. My hands are sweaty, and my face has gone white. I’m scared, I really wish I wasn’t alone. She lies there, under a thin white sheet. Clear tube inserted to her throat, just like at chemo, she has a million coloured wires running off her. Sticky patches collect her brainwaves and transfer them to a machine. Dr Steel walks in quietly, I barely noticed. As I sit in the green armchair, I look at him with watery eyes because I don’t know what to do. He notices my silent plea for help and offers the best and worst advise he has, “Just stay with her, another doctor will be in shortly do discuss turning off the life support.” I stay frozen, I don’t even think I’m breathing. He bows his head and walks out.

I can’t move. I can’t do a single thing. I can’t breathe. “We would like to take her off the life support as soon as possible. I understand this is hard to hear but keeping her like this is not living.” Once again, I’m stuck. My feet feel like they’re in quicksand and my mouth feels like it’s glued shut. I sit there staring straight through him as I hear those words rattle through my head, round and round. “I need some air.” I say it as fast as possible and run out of the doctor’s office. Throwing one foot in front of the other, down the hall and out the doors. I bend over slightly, hands on my knees, mouth dangling open. Once I catch my breath, I light up a smoke. By the time I’m finished that I feel like I can go back inside and not be afraid of having a panic attack.

* * *

I’m sitting in that same green chair, yet now I’m starting to hate it. She still lies there, content, without a care in the world. Doctors stand by for the time we turn off her machines. One of my hands hold hers, the other around my leg, sinking in my nails. My heart races, it sounds like horses hooves right before a finish line. My mind entwines itself into all the wrong scenarios it can come up with. My eyes are franticly searching for anything to prove a sign of life, nothing. “Are you ready?” the nurse looks through my eyes and into my soul, I don’t know what I’m doing. I beg her for help through my bright green orbs, I feel guilty. I should not be the one to decide whether or not to stop her heart from beating permanently. Even if it is a machine that keeps her heart going and her lungs breathing.

“I think it’s her you should really be asking that to,” I tell the nurse, she nods, unsure of what to say.

“It’s all up to you now,” the nurse replies.

I understand, this nurse probably has to do this on a daily basis. “I’m ready.”

The nurse turns off the beeping noise, she turns it off and then another machine to my left. Then pulls of the sticky tabs that leave marks on the sleeping face of my true love. She pulls out needles and wires. Then says, “We were hoping for her to draw in a breath, but she hasn’t. This is the end. She is gone.”

I understand that people die every day and are born every day. But why did it have to be my love that died, she is the only thing that I have ever asked for, the only thing that I deserve. Maybe one day I’ll be happy again.

Her grave is plotted next to a young boy, he was only five when he died, and his name was Oliver. He keeps my love good company. Each week I come to lay some honeysuckle flowers. Day after day, week after week, I’ve finally started getting better. I’ve learned that the promise of true love is real, it’s the getting to keep that love forever that’s the sticky sweet lie. A lie that everyone tells. A beautifully enticing honeysuckle lie.