Adrian

After they moved Adrian to a room, we went in to see him.

"There's nothing wrong with me." He tried to convince us that we should
just leave before the results of the tests came in. I thought it was
because of his destiny theory. It wasn't - but at that moment - I
didn't know that.

The doctor came in and asked Adrian if he wanted us to leave the room
while they talked.

"No." He was abrupt. Wanted her to get to the point so we could all go
home. She stood at the foot of the bed, carefully looking at each of
us, holding a clipboard, her forefinger tracing its edges. I looked at
Adrian and I saw someone I didn't know. He was always so sure of
himself. Always the first one to crack a joke, make fun of the
situation, and walk away. Now, he lay in his bed, barely moving, barely
breathing. Adrian was scared.

She reached out, placed her hand on his leg, "It's AIDS. I'm
sorry."

None of us moved.

She continued, "There's nothing we can do. It seems you've been
infected with HIV for a few years now. You were never tested?"

Adrian shook his head.

The room suddenly felt small, the lights dimmer. I looked at Michael
and he just stood there, his hands in his pockets, staring at the
ground. I thought to myself, he looks just like Adrian. I looked at the
doctor, still standing at the foot of the bed, holding her clipboard. I
wanted to tell her - look at it again. You made a mistake. You have the
wrong papers. Those aren't Adrian's test results. But I kept quiet. I
always kept quiet.

Then she started telling Adrian about the medication he'd have to take.
The weekly visits to the hospital. The symptoms. The side effects. She
told him to make a list of the people he had sexual contact with.
Shared needles with.

She told him he was dying.

And I hated her.

I spent the night in the hospital with Adrian that night. The doctor
said only one person could stay, and I made it clear there was no way
I'd go home and leave Adrian there.

I lay on the small couch in the room, next to Adrian's bed and listened
to his breathing. I could tell he was still awake, but I didn't know
what to say to him. Sometime in the middle of the night, he decided to
give up the pretense of being asleep.

"Mariam?" he whispered.

"Yeah?"

"I can't sleep."

"Neither can I."

"Do you want to play I-Spy?"

I laughed, "It's too dark in here."

"Well then let's sneak outside into the car park and play it
there."

"You have to get some rest Adrian. Try and sleep."

"Mariam?"

"Yeah?"

"Would you lie next to me?"

That day - I saw the child inside of Adrian. The one he kept hidden
from everyone else.

I curled myself into the curve of his back, and we lay there till
sunrise. Neither of us could sleep. But neither of us could think of
what else to say.

The next morning we went home. Adrian went straight to bed and stayed
there for three days.

And life took a turn. I had to keep track of Adrian's medication
because I knew he never would. Suddenly we had to pretend to be
responsible adults, but in truth, we were all just kids. Kids who were
never any good at pretending.

And life went on.

I kept going to college. Michael went to work every morning. And Adrian
kept taking meth and playing gigs in small, overcrowded bars where you
could barely hear the music. Adrian got drunk more often, and put it
all down to his artistic temperament.

And then the visits to the emergency room seemed to merge - coming
closer together then they used to. More often than not, I'd be walking
behind Michael down a brightly lit sterile hospital hallway. He would
be supporting Adrian, trying to keep him on his feet.

Michael and I would take turns staying with Adrian in the hospital.
Most of the time, even if it was Michael's turn, I'd sleep in the
waiting room. I didn't tell Michael cause I know he would have argued
with me - told me to go home. One night he came out into the waiting
room, and saw me. I told him it had been so late when I was leaving,
and so I figured I'd just wait till morning. I couldn't tell him the
real reason. I couldn't tell him that I wouldn't go home just in case.
In case Adrian didn't come with us. In case I wouldn't have the chance
to say goodbye.