Hold Your Breath

She was fighting with him, but that wasn’t new. It seemed that the closer they got, the more they fought. Really, it didn’t make any sense, how could two best friends fight light cats and dogs? He said he cared, she doubted it. She said she cared, and she meant it.

What they had was good, and sometimes it could be great if they could go a few weeks without fighting. Granted, she had done some things that she knew would hurt him, considering he had confessed his deepest feelings to her. And he had made sure to have told her the night before exactly how he felt about her, and how much she had hurt him. So when her friends mentioned he’d be coming to the party that night, her stomach was in knots.

He arrived and there was an uncomfortable silence, she wondered if he would come over to say hello. After hugging everyone, she was surprised to see him walk over to her and give her a one-armed hug. They didn’t talk at all through that night though; they each stayed with their own group of friends.

She stepped outside for an hour or so to talk to one her friends because the cool tension in the room was annoying her. Eventually, several friends ran out of the house looking for her, saying she needed to go inside to handle her best friend.
She found him in the bathroom sitting on the floor in front of the toilet—how she usually saw him. He had an eating disorder, she assumed either anorexia or bulimia, it varied. He tried hiding it but she knew him well enough to figure out all his ways of ridding his body of food—he’d either voluntarily vomit, get too drunk where he’d vomit or use his intolerance to lactose as an excuse to get sick. This time he chose the route of alcohol-induced vomiting. But there was something different about him this time, she noted. He didn’t look the same, he looked weak.

“What’s wrong?” she asked him as she closed the bathroom door quietly behind him.
He looked up at her, tried a smile. “Nothing, I think I drank too much.”

“Don’t you always?” She noticed his eyes were watery. “Eat some bread; it’ll help soak up the alcohol.”

“I tried.” He looked annoyed. “My body is completely rejecting food.”

She sat down beside him and rubbed his back. “I’ll get you a glass of water then.”

She walked into the kitchen and poured him a glass of cool water. When she knocked and opened the door again she noticed that his usually dark was pale. She knew something was wrong and he just wasn’t telling her. At this point she had forgotten about their fight and was concerned about her best friend.

“I’m really sick,” he said.

“I know you are; I took the hint from you vomiting.”

“No,” he mumbled, “I’m really sick. I haven’t told anyone what I’m about to tell you.”

Her heart started racing as she swallowed hard. “What is it?” she whispered.

He looked her directly in the eye. “I’m HIV positive. I found out three weeks ago. It’s gonna kill me.”

She was in utter shock. Words scrambled through her mind but none could connect with her lips. Was she hearing him correctly? She felt like fainting, but also like hugging him. She wanted to extract the disease from his weak body and burn it to the ground. He didn’t deserve this, no one did. But he was such a great person; he disguised his hurt through bitterness.

When she could find the words, she spoke them quietly. “Was it…?” she trailed off.

He looked at her, his eyes displaying his vulnerability. “Yeah.”

She was silent again. Her head, however, was pounding. She kneeled and pulled him in tight for a hug. They stayed like that for a bit, tears rolling down both their faces. When he finally pulled away, she looked at him with sadness evident on her face. She hated the world, hated the person who gave it to him, hated that these diseases were even being spread. She also knew that this was something he couldn’t talk his way out of, he was stuck with it forever, and it was going to be the end of him.