Kneeling beside James, Tom removes his t-shirt and starts ripping it open down the seams. For a brief second, I wonder why, but I can’t ask because I can’t speak. I can’t move. I can barely breathe.
Once his t-shirt is in two pieces, he bounds one around James’ left wrist, pulling it tightly around his wounds before tying a knot and repeating the process on the other side.
“Y-you’ll hurt him,” I croak, so quietly I’m not sure I’ve even said it. I mustn’t have, because Tom ignores me, pressing two fingers against James’ neck for what must be the tenth time since he arrived.
“Oh no you don’t, buddy,” Tom says, placing the heel of his hand on James’ chest before locking his other hand on top of that.
Oh my God. No. Please.
On raised knees, Tom pushes down repeatedly, appearing to throw his whole body weight into each one. It’s nothing like you see on TV. He seems to be jabbing into James’ chest with so much force it looks almost brutal. Painful.
The whole thing terrifies me.
“James,” I whisper, throwing my palm over my mouth.
After what feels like an eternity, Tom stops compressing and tilts James’ head back a little before blowing into his mouth.
“Is he…is…” Oh my God.
He works his chest again. I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know what to do. I’ve never felt so useless, so fucking scared in my entire life.
Seconds later, two paramedics bustle into the room and I stumble back a few steps, idly wondering how they got in before deciding I don’t care.
“I need paddles,” Tom barks, the male paramedic already removing some kind of machine from a long, dark-green bag.
Tom starts rubbing down James’ chest with a towel while the female paramedic pulls two rubbery, orange sheets from her rucksack, placing them on James’ chest. Tom picks up the paddles while the other man fiddles with the machine, while I do nothing. I can’t help him. I’m paralysed.
“Charge to two hundred,” Tom calls. The machine buzzes, shortly followed by Tom yelling, “Clear!”
James’ body jolts, making my throat tighten. My gaze flips repeatedly between Tom and James and it almost feels like I’m an extra in a petrifying movie, like I’m not really here, this isn’t happening.
“Charge to three-hundred.”
Spinning around, I face the wall, my eyes burning, my heart sinking. I hear the moment James is shocked again but I can’t watch any longer. I’m losing him, and the pain is unbearable.
What have you done?
“We’ve got sinus rhythm,” Tom announces, but I don’t know what it means so I stay facing the wall, squeezing my eyes closed to trap the tears inside. I hear them shuffling, spouting numbers, making things rattle, but I can’t look. I won’t. I refuse to watch him slipping away from me.
“Theo.” A nudge on my shoulder accompanies Tom’s voice. “They’re taking him now. Do you want to ride with him or follow in the car?”
Turning around, I see James strapped into a stretcher, his listless body cocooned in a thick, green blanket. “He’s going to die, isn’t he?” I ask, my stare fixed on the stretcher as it’s pulled through the apartment.
“I don’t know,” Tom says, sighing. “They’ll take him straight to surgery, get him started on intravenous meds to counteract the pills he’s taken, but…you should prepare yourself.”
His words hit me like a kick to the stomach, winding me, and I double over, supporting myself with my hands on my knees.
Prepare yourself. How? How do I prepare to receive the worst news of my life? Is there something I need to do? Words I need to tell myself? Do I imagine it happening over and over again until I get used to the idea?
“If you want to go with him, you need to go now.”
“Right. Yes. Um…what, um…”
“Just breathe, T. Come on.”
Patting my back, Tom walks with me out of the apartment and into the lift. The paramedics are already out of the building and when we reach the lobby, I start to jog, hoping to catch up.
“Wait!” I call out when I hit the street and notice the female paramedic closing the ambulance doors. “Can I go with him?”
“Of course. Quickly.”
She ushers me inside and points to a foldout chair opposite James. This isn’t a new scenario. I’ve sat here once before, watching a paramedic fuss over him. Last time, however, I wasn’t in love with him, or if I was I didn’t know it yet. Last time, he wasn’t dying. Last time, I wasn’t about to lose my whole world.
We’re moving, sirens wailing, within seconds of me fastening my seatbelt. The paramedic hovers over James throughout the whole journey, jotting things down on a clipboard. By the time we arrive at the hospital, James has tubes sticking out of his arm and some kind of mask attached to a bag, which the paramedic is squeezing, over his mouth and nose.
I don’t know how I’m managing to walk, I don’t know anything anymore, yet my legs carry me forward as I follow James into A&E. Again, numbers are exchanged, stats, medications, and words I’ve only heard before on the TV.
“I’m sorry, you can’t go any further,” a woman in pale-blue scrubs says, raising her hand in front of me.
I look over her shoulder, watching James as he’s wheeled further and further away from me until he disappears completely through a set of double doors.
“I need you to go to reception and give them your friend’s details.”
“He’s not my friend.” He’s my everything. The nurse puts her hand on my quivering forearm and, for a moment, I stare at it. “Someone will come and find you when we have some news.”
Nodding, I make my way over to the large, oval reception desk in a daze. A woman in a navy chequered blouse asks me for the patient’s name and I answer while staring at the blood dried into my shirt.
At least, I thought I answered.
“Sir? Patient’s name please?”
“Oh. Sorry, um, James Holden. James David Holden.” I go on to give her his date of birth, address, and GP practice, and then I feel a hand on my shoulder.