“Benjamin, wake up! …This isn’t funny, Benji! Wake up!”
His chest wasn’t moving.
I struggled to a sitting position and took his shoulders, shaking them, gripping his shirt with both hands. It was still warm. I shook him again. “Don’t you dare die on me! Damnit, Benjamin, don’t you dare die!”
He wouldn’t wake up.
Why? Why wouldn’t he wake up?
I slapped his cheek once, twice; harder—he had to wake up. There was a sob rising in my chest as I took his hand again, feeling his wrist for a pulse, for anything, but there were only my tears, only Benjamin lying in my arms.
“Crucified Christ, Benjamin, get up! I need to tell you! I need to tell you I love you!”
art, writing (c) me