This Is How I Disappear

“Lay down,” the ex-dentist instructs, pointing at a table. Gerard hisses as he sits, and scoots until he’s flat on his back. I try to help by removing my hoodie and putting it under his head as a pillow. He nods his appreciation and closes his eyes.

“What happened, then?” Ronnie queries, donning a pair of rubber gloves, and picking some objects out of a container.

“Uh, he rolled over a glass shard on accident—” I begin.

“On purpose,” Gerard cuts in, grinning with his eyes still shut.

“You’re crazy,” Ronnie chuckles, then to me, “he’s a lunatic.”

I nod in total agreement before continuing, “It was in the dirt, so I’m worried it could get infected….” I trail off, realizing what I just said.

Gerard slits his eyes open enough to find my hand with his, then closes them again. I’m so surprised, I can’t backpedal like I was planning. “Isn’t my boyfriend sweet, Ronnie?” he asks.

I cough, completely unprepared for the ambush, and Ronnie stops what he’s doing to narrow his eyes slightly at Gerard, who wiggles the fingers of his free hand. “You’re radiating homophobia, Ronnie, I can feel it. And are those homicidal thoughts I sense?”

Ronnie grunts noncommittally, and returns to selecting a needle and thread. His hand is in mine, I marvel speechlessly. Did he just call me his boyfriend? His hand. Is in. Mine.

Suddenly, heartbreakingly, Gerard releases my hand and guffaws, causing the ex-dentist to turn around as Gerard’s laughter morphs into groaning. He grins through the pain and says, “Only joking, Ronnie. This is my brother, Gerard.”

Ronnie visibly relaxes. “You had me going there for a moment,” he chortles.

I stand motionless at Gerard’s side, feeling inexplicably humiliated, like I was just the butt of their joke. Or is this just what false hope feels like when you discover its duplicity?

“Your job,” Ronnie tells me cheerfully, coming over, “is to hold this tricky bastard down if he starts squirming.”

I reanimate, frowning, but position myself by Gerard’s shoulders. Ronnie cuts away the stained shirt, and peels it off slowly. Gerard whimpers as the fibers catch on his wound.

“Do you need a stick to bite, or can’t you handle a little pain?” Ronnie questions Gerard, who shakes his head. “Take that as a no to the stick,” the ex-dentist mutters. He holds a fold of gauze over a bottle labelled “Hydrogen Peroxide” and tips it a few times before dabbing the soaked cloth on Gerard’s wound.

Gerard draws in a sharp breath, and I automatically find his hand with mine. He squeezes it hard and arches his neck back with long groan when Ronnie splashes the liquid directly on the cut. Foam and pus bubble forth, mixing with his blood. I feel queazy looking at it.

“That should clean out any infection that might’ve gotten in there. Now, the best part!” Ronnie wields the needle and thread a little too gleefully for my comfort.

I cringe as he gestures for me to hold Gerard’s shoulders, but don’t disobey. I keep my hand threaded with Gerard’s as I rest my hands on his chest. He tenses subtly, eyes still closed. I watch his face rather than the procedure, squeezing his hand comfortingly every time he winces. At one point, Gerard seems to involuntarily curl inwards with a cry, and I grimace as I dutifully force him down again.

I glare at Ronnie, who says with the same cheer, “Whoops! A little too deep.” The needle is being pulled through a hole an inch from the actual cut.

“Watch it,” I growl, doing my best to intimidate. Unfortunately, I rate somewhere between an angry penguin and a frazzled old professor on the intimidation scale.

Ronnie nods happily as I return to surveying Gerard’s expression. I hate seeing him in pain.

Not that your feelings tend to follow any sort of logic, my brain says disparagingly, but you did only just meet him yesterday.

Not now, I dismiss, and my brain silences immediately.

Sweat collects on Gerard’s pale forehead, causing strands of his red hair to stick to his cheeks. After a slight hesitation, I brush them from his face gently. He doesn’t seem to notice.

Probably a good thing, my brain, who can never stay quiet for long, remarks.

Yeah, I sigh, you’re probably right.

With a final wince from Gerard, Ronnie announces, “Done. Now just bandaging.” He gets out a large square bandaid that covers the wound completely. Then he hands me a stack of identical bandages. “You’ll want to change it at least once a day, and any time it bleeds or gets dirty. I’ll grab a shirt for him, and I want you gone in less than thirty minutes.” Ronnie departs, presumably in search of that shirt.

Gerard’s hand squeezes mine weakly, and I suddenly realize we’re still holding hands. I squeeze back and gently disentangle my fingers from his.

“Frank?” Gerard asks in a hoarse voice.

“Yeah?” I reply nervously. No need to be nervous, my brain reminds me. It’s strange to talk to someone with their eyes closed; I don’t know where to look.

“You know I’m a murderer, right?” he ventures. “You remember that?”

I don’t know if I should laugh or be quiet, so I simply answer, “Yes, I remember.”

“Good,” he says, and I raise my eyebrows. “I mean, good you don’t have short-term memory.”

Still not sure if this is some weird psychopath humor or not, I don’t respond.

“So if you know I’m a murderer,” he goes on after a pause, “why are you treating me like I’m a good person?”

I’m startled by this. “What do you mean?” I ask stupidly.

“The way I figure it,” Gerard theorizes, “you’re either a really nice person, or a really insane person. Maybe both.”

“Um,” I say, “leaning towards one or the other?”

Gerard opens his eyes just enough to squint up at me. “Crazy,” he decides with certainty. “Definitely crazy.”

Laughter bubbles up inside me without warning, and Gerard watches my fit of giggles with an expression that says I’m just proving his point. “I’ve come to the same conclusion about you,” I manage after the laughing runs its course.

Gerard grins maniacally at my statement, and suggests, “Let’s be crazy together!”

I snort. “That sounds like a great idea.”