Fade Away
His brow knits in frustration, eyes darkening beneath partially lowered lids, and I can tell we're about 5 seconds away from another screaming fit.
"Come on," I urge tentatively, because I'm not sure how much further I can push him. We've already been in two fights this morning and it isn't even noon. "Just two more bites." Please. "Please?"
His lip curls in disgust as he stabs at the omelet, spearing a miniscule bit of egg onto the tines of his fork. Stares at it a moment, a contest of wills; then he brings it slowly to his mouth and chews. The distasteful expression on his face would be funny if this wasn't so serious. He jabs hesitantly at another morsel of egg, then his fork clatters sharply onto the plate.
"I can't," he whispers, pushing the plate away as if its mere sight makes him sick. "I *can't*," he spits, fists clenching, rage and self-loathing flashing across his face. I know it's borne of an intense, soul-deadening weariness, but it hurts me to see him this way just the same.
"Okay," I soothe, lifting his plate away as he reaches for a half-smoked joint. It's done its job this morning�almost half the omelet is gone. I toss the remains into the garbage and pour a glass of orange juice, reaching for the row of bottles that fill the spice rack. I've done this so many times I don't even have to think about it, pouring out the correct number of pills from each container without even counting. He's watching from the corner of blood-shot eyes; I glance over my shoulder to catch his gaze, sighing at his frown. He's going to make this difficult.
"I don't want them," he protests half-heartedly, even as he reaches for the mound of pills in my hand. He never wants them, and I don't blame him; most days they make him too sick to go out, too sick to do anything but kneel on the bathroom floor and shake. But not taking them isn't an option; we don't ever discuss it. I watch his face contort in displeasure as he swallows them one by one, gulping down juice to wash away the bitter taste. By the time he's done he's trembling so badly he can't even hold the cup. It slips from his hand and shatters on the table, spraying splinters of glass.
"Fuck!" he shouts, jerking his hand back in pain. A shard of glass has buried itself in his fingertip. He sucks at the wound gingerly, wincing as the splinter digs deeper in his flesh. A quick glance at his face reveals he's one firm push away from tears.
"Here, let me," I offer, sitting down across the table from him and taking his injured hand in both of mine. The sliver is fairly well hidden, but after a few moments' careful probing I manage to pull it free. A fresh bead of blood wells to the surface and I have to physically restrain myself from kissing it away. It's such a natural reaction that it makes my stomach clench to realize that even a simple gesture like that could cost me my life. As I wipe the blood away with a tissue and apply a Band-Aid to the cut, I wonder if I even really care.
What's the point of going on with life if he's not there?
"How are you feeling?" I whisper, studying his face closely for his reaction. That's where I'll find my answer, not in the easy lies he tells. "I'm okay," he murmurs; brows drawn in pain, full mouth pressed into a thin line to a hide a tell-tale grimace. He's a good liar over the phone, but face-to-face his body gives him away. He's huddled around the pain in his stomach, trying to conceal his agony even though I know it must be tearing him apart inside. I let him pretend because he needs the masquerade so very much, needs to act like he's tough to feel he's still a man.
But the game is getting harder to play, and day by day I watch him slip away.
We spend the rest of the day just laying around the house, watching MTV2 and playing video games. At night I help him shower and get ready for bed, and then I make love to him as gently as I know how, because we both need it so much, and he says it's the only thing that takes the pain away. We're always careful, sometimes maddeningly so, but I know that every time we do this I'm risking my life. So far the monthly tests I take have come back clean, but I can only cheat the odds for so long. He tells me we should stop.
And I know he's right, I know this is too dangerous, but I can't keep myself away from him. I don't know how much longer we have left. He's losing weight so rapidly his clothes no longer fit right; he looks lost in his shirt, like a little boy wearing his father's suit. It terrifies me, how thin he's become; thin and pale, too much time inside painting a pallor over his golden skin. He's still beautiful, but he's only a shell of what he used to be, and I wonder how much longer it can go on.
How long can he fade away before he disappears?