BEFORE I DIE, I PRAY TO BE BORN | ✓

▬▬ 30

WEDNESDAY
24.10.1990
DORIAN

               I manoeuvre the door open with my elbow and wedge myself between it so it doesn't shut. 'Lucky for you, Alicia was working today so I got a whole tray—' It almost slips from my hold as my insides plummet. 'Shay?'

Isaiah doesn't try to answer, nor does he manage to give any sign of recognition. To a stranger, he might look sound asleep — he's almost exactly where I left him: sprawled on his stomach with one knee bent to parallel his bent elbow — but his fingers are clawed into the flimsy mattress topper. His muscles, stretched like clingfilm over bone, are too tight for sleep.

I slide the tray onto my desk and drop to my knees beside the bed. 'Isaiah?'

Tears slip from his eyes which are hardly parted at all. The fissure of his pupils that's visible through his lashes shifts to me. That's all I need to get me to act: meds.

Meds. I seize his backpack and rummage through his balled-up uniform (Why is it so messy? You never shove things into your bag like this, like I do) for the paisley medicine bag which I open so harshly I nearly break the zipper.

Temazepam, diazepam, pregabalin. Even when I've dumped all the packets onto the worn blue carpet, there's no sign of the brown glass bottle I'm looking for.

I snap my head up to him. 'Where's your codeine?'

Isaiah shakes his head, a minuscule movement that takes great effort, and lifts a single finger to point at a packet of paracetamol I've tossed away in my search. 'Just give me two of those.'

But it won't help! Paracetamol will be as effective as a plaster on a stab wound.

Isaiah's features crack with agony. It might be expected that he would contort and scream — I'm sure he is, internally — but even the expression of pain will cause him more, so he has to retain an appearance of absolute calm (I hate that you're so good at it, you shouldn't have to be). It's his fingers that give him away, the way his knuckles strain, yellow and red on the fingers affected by vitiligo and darkened on the rest.

I check for codeine a final time before I grab the paracetamol and rush to the sink in the corner of my room to fill a glass of water. I fetch a straw from the packet I keep in case he has flares while staying here, then leave all three on my desk.

Isaiah's eyes are shut again though I can't tell whether he's fallen from consciousness or is merely too tired to keep them open. I stroke his temple before I take in a deep breath. 'This might hurt,' I warn, as if he doesn't know.

And it does hurt. He screams against clenched teeth when I hoist his arm over my shoulder. The sound strikes a ravine through my chest, breaching both my lungs to be flooded with water, but I have to lift him to sit against the wall. He told me six years ago he prefers it like that, for pain to be delivered in one hard blow rather than consistent jabs — rip off the plaster at once.

He sighs in relief when I slip my pillow behind his back.

I fetch the glass of water and paracetamol, pop two into my hand, and climb onto my knees beside him. Isaiah opens his mouth, lets me tilt the tablets onto his tongue and help him find the straw. I cup on the back of his neck for support as he bends his head to get the pills down which takes several attempts — there's a reason he's prescribed liquid codeine.

He continues to drink until the glass is half empty and he stops, not because he's no longer thirsty but because he becomes too fatigued to swallow.

I rest the glass on my knee. 'Where's your codeine?' I regret asking the second the question is out: these are the pokes and prods Isaiah hates when he flares.