The Girl Who Cried Boy - Part Two

The wait is over! Part two of Emily's The Girl Who Cried Boy has arrived!

Below is a link to part one for those who want to reread it.

The Girl Who Cried Boy - Part One

The Girl Who Cried Boy

By Emily Simpson

Two

As I lie fixed to the bed by the weight of my body, I remember.

Lashes of waves, the sting of their whips. The slice of my skin against the rocks. The water in my eyes, in my ears, in my lungs, trying to claim me. 

Freddie hurling me to safety.

Freddie.

There’s a swell of panic as my body refuses to react to his name. I try and move but pain erupts from the side of my head, shooting around my body, webbing me down. I’m paralysed. Locked-in syndrome. A horror film: a patient due for surgery, the anaesthetic failing, still able to feel, but unable to speak.  

Inside I am screaming.

I relive the last time I saw Freddie over and over, all too slowly, watching the water drag him under and away from me. 

What happened? What the hell happened?

My head. The pain. Intense. Blaring. Louder than the thud of my heart in my ears.

Blasts of white: the veins of the waves, his terrified eyes.

And then I feel my mouth to come to life, as if horrified into compliance. Freddie. It starts as a whisper, the two syllables rolling out of my mouth like puffs of air. My lip is swollen, my mouth bone dry and I can’t swallow; I can’t, but I have to keep throwing out his name, I have to and I’ll keep on until someone catches it.

“Freddie!” Louder now, more like a wail. My head; set to implode.

“Freddie! Freddie! Freddie! Freddie!” It’s just garbled noise now, but I must keep screaming.

A door swinging open. A blur of bodies. Hands all about me. Voices cooing, none of them Freddie’s. A sharp prick in my arm. An alarming sense of falling.

I’m slipping.

They’re taking me away from him.

I can’t hold on.

***

Louie is sat on the chair by my bed. He’s leaning in so close I can feel the heat from his body and I hear his knee knocking against the mattress, locked in the spasm he always gets when he’s nervous. He shifts in his seat. He knows that I’m awake.

My mouth is poised to call for Freddie, but this time I stay quiet.

Instead I force my eyes open and hold them there until they adjust to the light and stream with moisture. I can finally take in my surroundings. White windowless walls. Artificial air and emptiness. The stench of antiseptic. A thin, foam mattress beneath me. No machines; that’s good. But also no Freddie.

And then I see Louie, leaning over me anxiously, his eyes puffed and raw. He looks like hell—his hair bedraggled and skin pallid, in his old surf club hoodie, bobbled from being over-washed—but I’m so relieved to see him.

“Mya. Oh god,” he says, moving towards me as if he’s about to hug me. He pauses and then pulls away swiftly, eyeing me as if I’m as fragile as dry leaves beneath his feet.

“I’m alright,” I say and he lets out a long breath, wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve. The pain in my head begins to stir and I try and breathe through it, hoping this spell won’t be as bad as before.

“I was so scared. We’ve been so scared,” Louie says, lifting my hand gently into his. I notice the stiff white bandages wrapped around my knuckles and remember the rocks grating the skin away.

“They said you died for a minute, when you stopped breathing.” He says, his voice frayed at the edges. He immediately shakes his head, annoyed at himself for telling me so bluntly. “I’ll get Mum.” He makes for the door.

“Wait,” I say firmly. I don’t have time to process what he’s just told me. I need to know how Freddie is. I don’t think I can physically withstand any more waiting. Louie’s eyes search mine, a perfect mirror image of my own and I wonder if I look as vulnerable as he does right now.

“Freddie,” I say. It doesn’t come out as a question, but I know Louie will understand what I mean, like he knows the moods I swing and when I’m in pain and when I take things the wrong way and everything about me that no one else can see. It’s more than twin intuition; he’s my friend. He knows me down to the bone. I trust him implicitly.

But he doesn’t respond.

The hairs on my arms stand on end. My heart is in my throat. I can taste it, clotting on my tongue.

“Where’s Freddie? How is he?” I say, adrenalin gushing through me now, my head screaming as I try to sit up. It’s bad. It has to be. The silence is impenetrable. I hold my breath, desperately trying to savour these last few seconds of ignorance.

Louie looks quickly towards the door. If there was any colour left in his face, it’s gone now and I think I know why. Louie knows he’s the one who has to tell me that Freddie is dead, that he’s been ripped from my life, as swiftly and cleanly as a page being torn from a book. I reach up and clamp my hand around his wrist, squeezing it with everything I have and everything I know I’m about to lose.

Louie opens his mouth.

“Mya, I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

It’s much worse than death.

My terrified heart, attempting to beat.

I don’t know who you’re talking about.

“Wh..what?” He’s crying, or is it me?

“I don’t know anyone called Freddie,” he says and memories rush into my mind; Louie and Freddie’s awkward introduction, the relief I felt when they bonded, Louie teaching Freddie to surf, spending New Year’s Day together, playing board games round the table with me and Mum. My boys; my protectors.

I trust him implicitly?

Louie takes my hand again and I snatch it away. “Mya, Mya listen to me. You hit your head. I’ll get someone.”

“For fuck’s sake Louie, stop it. Just stop it.” I feel myself winding so tightly inside, my body folding in on itself. “Just tell me what happened to him.”

More silence.

“You were found washed up on the rocks. Alone.” I shut my eyes, shut my ears. “Mya. Can you hear me? You were alone.”

Falling again. Freddie, dissolving into the sea; his body crumbling like sand, gushing between my fingers.

This time, I welcome the blackness.