Please Don't Write Me Again...
Saturday, December 13th, 2003
Please Don't Write Me Again...
A Dom Entry
Yesterday was the first day I'd ever seen Billy cry. This morning was the first time in years that I'd cried myself.
Billy found out. Apparently Leon told him that he wasn't MS. And my Billy came home with tears coming down his face. He wanted me to comfort him; at least he stuck around. But I didn't say anything helpful at all. Damn it, I should have held him. I should have just buggered everything and put my arms around him and told him that I am MS and that I care for him and that he doesn't have to cry; that he can even hit me if he wants to. But I didn't do any of that. I sat with him, tried to hush him, tried to be sympathetic...but how can you be sympathetic when you're not supposed to be involved?
Billy looked to me, tears filling his tired eyes, shaking all over. I'll never forget the feeling, seeing him like that. It hurt so much. "I can't believe what an idiot I've been," he said. "How could I be so foolish?" And more tears ran down his cheeks.
"You haven't been any of those things," I tried, in my softest voice. "It was just a misunderstanding, right? It will get better, hey?" In my mind I was kissing away each and every tear; I hoped my words sounded like I was.
But he didn't look up at me this time. He just shook, sitting beside me. Small and alone, and I couldn't touch him. He shook his head and said, "No."
I couldn't understand. I didn't. And I didn't want to. But I know now. I know what he meant by that one word, the single word that is now echoing in my empty heart. "No." No letters. No MS. No more of me. He's ended everything.
I received his letter as I usually do, straight from his hands this morning. But this time as he handed me the envelope he was crying. I wanted to die. But I was also comforted in that instant. I knew that since he had written a letter, everything was going to be all right. I knew that. It was as though he were saying, "I still want MS with me," and perhaps, "now, more than ever." And everything was going to get better. It hurt for now, yes, but the pains of rejection couldn't last forever. My Billy was going to be happy again soon.
I got to work, quickly opening the letter, hoping there was something I could read that would certify my hopes, or something I could say to him in response that would comfort him in a way that I myself couldn't do last night. But when I unfolded the single page inside of the envelope, all I saw was this:
MS -
I can't keep this up any longer. This isn't real, and it never will be. I can't risk it any longer.
I'm sorry. Please don't write me again.
Billy
I couldn't help it; tears came into my eyes, overflowing into little droplets on the counter. I was thankful as hell that Marty was out. I must have sat there, reading and re-reading, putting down and picking up that letter fifty times, pacing the office, tears coming down, shaking; standing and sitting; wanting to find Billy and beg him back.
This isn't real.
It never will be.
Don't write again.
I can't feel it anymore; I don't think my heart even exists anymore. Something tricked me. How can this not be real...? I've felt more emotions in the past five months than I have ever felt in my life. And now...now I remember even more emotions I've had that I hadn't noticed even yesterday. If it never will be...than how is it that I've had seven dreams of that day? That Christmas Eve. The day that I tell Billy who I am; the day he takes me in and tells me he feels the same... I've lived through that day over five hundred times, and every time it seems more real, even closer to me than before. The snow falls, it feels cold on my nose, and I see Billy, and he smiles, and I walk with him and take his hand, and it feels so very warm, and I lead him somewhere off to...anywhere...and encircle him in my arms, and I can feel his form against me, it feels right, and the moment is perfect, and the stars are perfect and he is perfect, and he looks to me, and then I kiss him; oh hell, I kiss him for hours. How can't that be? If I can't write to him again...how will Billy ever know that I...that I
I...
He's sleeping now. He probably has his face pressed to his pillow. He's probably leaving tear trails down the fabric. He's probably clutching Thomas to his side, tufts of his fur matted with salt water. He's wearing his boxers and a shirt, because he always does that when he's had a bad day. He would say it's more comfortable. He'd wear socks, too. His feet get cold in winter. And he's left his curtains open a bit, because he doesn't like his room too dark; because he wants the moonlight to come in. He's brushed his teeth, because he hates the sticky taste in his mouth in the morning. But he hasn't put his clothes away, because he does the laundry on Sunday, so his jeans are on the chair beside his bed and his shirt is on the floor. And he hasn't washed his face, because it just isn't important anymore. He wants to remember how the tears feel, so he can remember what they're for. And his hasn't opened his letter box tonight. He hasn't pulled it out from under his bed and fanned through the envelopes. He hasn't carried the box downstairs and opened each letter up to read them. He hasn't spread the papers around him on the floor and the couch to count them. He hasn't looked up to me, smiling over a warm mug of cocoa and to claim proudly, "Thirty-one!" He hasn't taken them to bed with him in armfuls to read them again.
He hasn't.
And he doesn't want to. He wants it all to end.
I'm...I'm going to write to him. I mean, MS is going to write to him again. If only for him to be able to say that his total was thirty-two. Maybe this is just a passing thing. He's gotten hurt, but he'll get better. He'll get better. He'll write back.
He will...
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