“It has come to our understanding that a considerable amount of Gastromesis cases have proven to be deadly...(it's a) slow and relatively painful progress.”
-Teresa Williams, Writer for 'Time Magazine'


She's still awake when I get home; clad only in a robe and drowning in the armchair. The dull glare of the television screen reflecting in her eyes.
“Where have you been,” she murmurs, but I know she doesn't really care to know.
“Zeke's.”
She doesn't respond. The news is on, and god forbid she miss any of it.
“He hit me.”

My cheek has been throbbing since I left. It's a dull pain, but escalates to a point where I feel close to fainting when touched. Black dots swirl in front of my face and from beneath closed eyelids.
If she were a normal mom, she'd be...mom-ish. Spring into action.
At least look up.
“Punched me right i-”
“It spread to every country now.” She watches the screen with unhealthy intent, causing shivers to run down my spine. “Can you believe it, Your? It's getting worse everyday...it's everywhere now...”
Her fingers protectively wrap around the remote.
“Mom-”
“No cure, Youri. No cure.” Her voice is calm, but silent sobs begin to rack her body.
Anxiety rises in my throat like bile.
“Mom, go to bed.” I try to keep the panic out of my voice, but I can't help it. It makes me sick; my stomach ache and my heart pound. She should be sleeping. “Please mom-”
“No.” She tightens her grip on the remote. “Look, there's a special announcement coming up. Look, see there? It says so...it says-”
She's crazy, and I know it; of course I do. She has been for the past few months. A tiny, rattled, worried woman. An overprotective single mother.
She can't handle a dish out of place, much less this.
“Don't catch it.” She whispers. “Promise me you won't.”
“I won't mom.”
She reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “Because you're all I got.”
“I know, mom.”
And I do know it. She pulls me to her chest and strokes my hair with trembling hands. They're thin, and cold, and I have to fight the urge to brush them off of me.
It's like hugging a skeleton.

“He's an odd kid; cries too easily. Likes to do math homework and never sleeps. Overprotected and second-guessed, with not enough to do and too damn much to think about. He gets on my nerves...but then again, I suppose everybody does. I hit him too hard last night; God, I know I did. But when he starts, starts going off like that, I can't really help it. I want to throttle him sometimes, I really do. But still. He's only a kid. I grab my jacket and a pack of cigarettes. Check the time: 7:30 in the morning, but I know he'll be up.” -Zeke Petroletti “Why didn't you put some ice on it?” Zeke grabs a handful of snow from a nearby snowbank and presses it against my face, as if it were a hunk of frozen meat. That's the type of guy he was; he would shoot you in the back, but dress your wounds in the same breath. “It wasn't hurting last night.” I lie. “Well, it looks like hell.” It's early. The day is clear, but not in a good way. It's a sharpness that waters your eyes; a cold so clean it burns your nose and scratches at your throat. The snow is bright, but it doesn't sparkle. “People are going to think your old man beats you or something.” Zeke continues. “My dad's dead.” “They don't know that.” He may be frank, but he's usually right. We walk, with no real destination in mind, stopping occasionally for Zeke to fuss over my face. He pries my eye open wide and peers inside. “Looking for blood.” He says. He lets it snap shut and continues walking. “Mel okay today?” Zeke shoots me a look, but nods. Suddenly feels the need to light a cigarette. “Can I see him?” “Nope.” He puts an arm around my shoulders and roughly forces me close. “Ask again, and I'll kick your ass.” It occurs to me then that I haven't seen Mel in over a week, and a surge of melancholia runs through me like adrenaline. I think Zeke notices. “Listen,” he starts, but already I don't want to hear what he has to say. “Youri, are you listening?” “Yes.” I mutter. “You better be, because I swear kid, if you show up at my doorstep with another half-assed scheme-” “I won't.” He raises an eyebrow. “You sure about that?” His fingernails dig into my flesh. “Because sometimes I don't think you get it. I think you're going to do whatever the hell you want, no matter what I say.” I bite my cheek and frown. “You have to stay away, Your.” Zeke stops walking. He grabs me by the shoulders and I wriggle, irritated. “F off.” I mumble. I flinch, waiting for the blow, but it doesn't come. I cautiously open an eye and see Zeke shaking his head. “It's all for you, you know...and your mom.” He throws the cigarette on the ground and snuffs it out with his sneaker. “I'm not just being an asshole...” The last time I saw Mel, he was doubled over the toilet. Arms wrapped so tightly around his midsection, I was afraid his veins would burst. His eyes clouded beneath thick glasses. What if he's dead, dead and Zeke won't tell me? He's probably afraid I'd have a mental breakdown or something...after all, I am 'just a kid'. Would I be invited to the funeral? Would he at least give me that? “He's still alive though.” I need to hear it, for sanity's sake. I need the words to block out the uncertainty. “Right, Zeke?” I try to imagine Mel, in a tux and with his hair combed nice. I bet he would be shy with all of those people looking at him like that. “Of course.” Zeke rubs at his nose, glaring at the dirty snow beneath his feet. “Don't be an idiot.” The way he says it makes it seem preposterous; like I should be ashamed for even asking such a thing. And momentarily, I feel okay.

Take Care

“Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds...”
-United States Postal Service Creed
“..unless Zeke tells them not to.”
-Addition courtesy of Youri Lovick




We were like the Three Musketeers, you know? Except worse; minus the swords and the matching uniforms. Take out the heroic bit too, and the popularity factor while you're at it. Add some snide insults from fellow students and declining self-esteem, and there you have it; Zeke, Mel, and I. Three losers.
Three failures.
Zero girlfriends.

And then Zeke graduated, and it was only the two of us—and, unfortunately, there's no clever simile for that. We used to eat lunch in the science wing because the amount of people in the lunch room made Mel nervous; I'd have to wait with him until the halls cleared between classes, because god knows the boy would never push his way through a crowd. And when he got nominated for Homecoming prince during his junior year as a joke, it was me that had to sit with him as he trembled in the first-floor bathroom during the pep rally. It was funny to some; a scrawny freshman, taking care of his 6',5'' friend as if he were his seeing-eye dog.
You can laugh if you want; hell, maybe it is funny.
But I can't see it.

“Where are your friends?”
She's looking at me, which startles me a little, considering she hasn't looked up from the television screen for a couple hours now. I've been sitting next to her all day, occupying my swirling thoughts by pretending to be a real family. Which, I know, sounds exceedingly melodramatic and chock-full of self despair, but hey—that is my specialty, after all.
“I don't know.” I answer numbly.
“You know, that...that dark-haired one. And that other one...with the glasses.” She has a delusional frown plastered onto her face, musing over faces and lost names.
“I don't know, mom.”
This seems to trouble her a little. Her frown deepens, the creases around her eyes doing to same. Should I tell her? Humor her with information she will no doubt forget?
But soon the music changes; the commercials are over, and her attention is focused elsewhere.

Mel would always return the favor. With every awkward moment I helped him avoid, you can be sure that multiple of my notorious emotional meltdowns were deflected. Every social situation averted was matched with a yoga-breathing technique; every snicker compatible with a cognitive behavioral exercise.


In short, it took a lot to be our friends.
“Invite them over one day.” she looks at me and smiles cavernously.“You seem lonely.”