Disclaimer: True. And Busted were a black girl group.
A young man, early twenties, sits cradling his head in hands, staring down the corridor. His eyes are squeezed shut, trying to block out the rest of the world. He’s too young to be suffering but he is. He’s hurting, he’s hurting the most he’s every hurt in his life. His heart feels like it’s been torn out and stamped on. He clutches his chest every so often, as if trying to keep it locked in place, not trusting his own mind. He can’t see into the next room, and it’s much better for him that he doesn’t.
His best friend, the only man he’s ever loved, lies on a tiny bed, surrounded by doctors. All of them trying to do their bit to help, trying to save his life. They shout things the dark-haired man can’t understand, he just hopes it’s a sign his friend will make it. He never told him how he really felt; he had plenty of time, countless hours spent with each other, sat in silence. He regrets the wasted time, he was always to scared to express his feelings, and he kept them bottled up inside, never telling a soul that he was gay.
The blond can’t think straight, he’s aware he’s slipping off, but he’s fighting. He’s fighting so hard to open his eyes, to utter his last few words. He could have said them a long time ago, but he was scared of rejection. The hazy feeling in his own brain tells him it wouldn’t have mattered; he would have cleared his conscience, got his feelings out. His last thoughts are of Matt, he tries his best to stay on for a few more seconds, willing his memory of the love of his life to stay as strong as it can. He never wants to forget him. He doesn’t want to die. Hew wants to see Matt again, just once more, maybe he could finally tell him. Maybe, just maybe.
Matt screams when he hears the long bleep of James’ monitor. He falls to his knees; he lets every drop of salty liquid fall from his eyes, creating dark patches on the cotton of his t-shirt. He knows he’ll never love again, never feel whole again, even if it was just a half, one-sided love he had with James, he’d never feel it again. Never. He scratches at his eyes, wanting to empty every painful tear onto his clothes. He could wash his clothes clean, clean of pain. But it would be so much harder to clean his heart. Impossible.
A tall doctor with a clipboard walks in to face Matt. She sees a broken man, a man who’s just lost everything. A man who’s lost his entire world. She tenderly crouches down so her eyes are level with his. She sighs softly, wrapping her arm round his shoulders. He sobs louder, his cries echoing through the empty ward. She starts speaking to him, gently stroking his arm, trying to give him as much comfort as possible.
“Mr Willis,” she says, “I have to inform you of Mr Bourne’s condition. As you know his heart was under great amounts of stress. It’s very complicated to understand...”
He cuts her off, whispering hoarsely, looking down to his feet.
“I know what dead means.”