Perfectly Golden

I knew he was slowly dying.
         Vince had been my boyfriend for three years, and at the tender age of seventeen, that was an eternity. Before him, it was scattered dates through my middle school and high school career. He was so full of life, so beautifully different and I was so impossibly lucky to be the one that caught his eye. He spent all of his time outdoors, meriting his tan, and sun-bleached light brown hair. His eyes were soft brown, soft enough that when the light caught them, they shimmered and danced, perfect and golden.
         We met in the school library, in our separate research projects. I was researching elements of Us History, particularly Colonial times. He was forming an in-depth biography on Patrick Henry. We both needed just the one more source, the one more reference to meet the requirements of respective projects. And there was just the one book. We sat together at one of the age old wooden tables standing in rigid in a row of five, four chairs to each. On either side of us were seemingly endless rows of shelves running adjacent to us. The windows were high on the wall. The light beamed down perfectly onto our table, sparkling with the dust crossing its path, sparkling because there was not a cloud in that pale blue autumn sky to hinder it.
         I'd never been so shy and giggly as when I sat in that posture perfect uncaring chair beside his, leaning towards him to look over the same book. Despite my history of perfectionism, most especially in Advanced Placement US History, but for that half of an hour, beside Vince, I couldn't care less what happened moments before this class period, much less hundreds of years.
         Over the period of my parents divorce, he snatched me away from the cruelty, the screaming of my household. He carried me out on his white horse into whatever fantasyland he'd cooked up for me, whatever he could to make me laugh. More importantly, he made me smile. He never had to tell me it would be okay. Never did he whisper, "In the end, it's going to be just fine." That wasn't his way. He'd wind his strong arms around my waist and he'd murmur that he loved me. I could never ask for better reassurance.
         We'd fight, on occasion. We wouldn't speak for days. Long, empty days, but it never held out. One would crack, and the other would welcome them back with open arms. I lived with my mother, who worked full time. I came home after school every day to an empty house. He frequently called me after school, to make sure that I hadn't locked myself out, or simply to keep my lonely hours out of misery. But Friday, December Sixteenth, he hadn't been to school. He called me; the phone was ringing as I shut the door behind me. I had left the key in the lock as I ran to answer it.
         There was something different in his voice. I couldn't place it, but I didn't like it. I didn't like how serious my laid-back, my carefree Vince spoke. "Is something wrong?" I begged, twisting my index finger through my unkempt mob of dark red hair. He drew a breath, slowly exhaling it. "Whit, can I come over?" He asked me. He never called me Whitney, only my parents ever bothered to and only when they were upset. All the more I felt my breath catch in my chest.
         Leukemia. He didn't know how long he had, but it wasn't long at all. He was standing in front of me, holding on to my hands telling me this as though he were commenting on dreary sort of weather. My Vince was dying! Why was he so calm? The question pounded furiously through my mind, thrashing me from the inside. How could he be so calm? I succumbed to unconsciousness, falling forward into his outstretched arms. He was murmuring my name, pleading with me. That was the last thing I remember, as the lights of my world began to dim. And day-by-day, they grew dimmer.
         He did everything he could, trying to keep me smiling in his warm, safe arms, but his protection ran thin as his health tumbled. I reversed my attitude abruptly, finding him more often then not in bad health. The roles so swiftly reversed, as I struggled to find the strength he'd always given me, and return it. Every afternoon, I skipped homework to run to his house, to brush past his distraught mother and find him. I held his hand and spoke to him, forcing the warmth of his spirit to light my smile. I never cried in front of him; I couldn't. In mid April, I found him sitting up in bed, his eyes struggling to keep open. I nearly stopped in the threshold of his room, wondering when his eyes had turned dusty brown? His hair was darker, his tan had faded, having to retreat from the kiss of the sun. His eyes turned to me, relief washing through them, flooding his entire expression. I knew I couldn't stay long. He was so tired. I murmured that I loved him, reverently kissed his cheek. His hand took mine, squeezing it affectionately, and pressed it to his lips. ”You don't know how much that means to me, Whitney."
         The phone was ringing already, as I stepped into the mudroom, back into the cold, emptiness of my house. I didn't race to catch it; I slid off my shoes and half jogged over the gray and off-white tiles that made up the intricate pattern of our kitchen. "Hello?" The voice on the other end was familiar; Vince's mother, the cold woman who'd always disliked me. She blamed me, for stealing away her sons time from her, for taking away her baby boy when he was already leaving.
         "Whitney?" She asked, rather raggedly, already foregoing greetings. She rushed into an explanation as it astounded me this woman would call my house. Vince had passed away, had slipped from between my fingers sheer moments after I'd kissed him, and told him that I loved him. He'd fallen asleep, and his suffering had ended in that state. He'd kept himself upright, conscious through the day, only to say goodbye to me. He'd said goodbye to me for the last time.
         I couldn't feel my hand, clutching at the phone to hold it deafly to my ear. All in one moment, my knees felt cold and exhausted as though I'd been running hour on end. The tiles wavered then leapt up to snatch at me.

         "She has a concussion," Someone was muttering in some close quarters to me, to someone other then myself. My eyes wanted to open and to investigate the scene, but leaden weights held them shut and taunted my efforts. My head split in agonizing, sharp pains. I'd never had a migraine before, but I had only to guess this had to be one. "She must stay awake."
         Irritated, I flung my eyes open, fighting for my consciousness. I hated hospitals; I hated the white wash, sterilized feel of them. They battled with death constantly and they didn’t always win. I was lying in my own room, beside a small closed window, four chairs around my bed, two on either side. My mother was perched in one, with her hand pressed over her lips. I could tell she'd been crying from the streaks and bags under her eyes, and the disheveled look of her hair. My mother runs her hands through her copper hair, and seizes a handful of locks when she's upset. I had to slowly blink. When I opened them again, my head tilted back into the thick pillows, I could see some shape gliding through the open door. Vince! My Vince!
         "Hey, Whit." He greeted me, with his smile, that perfect white smile that lit up like fireworks, which sparkled to shame the moon. I didn't know if my mother, or that lanky, black haired doctor was still in the room. I didn't care, suddenly all too aware that my shoulders ached from incessant sobbing; even unconscious I was alone in my misery. My eyes were red and swollen, tearing again. "Sweetie, I came to say goodbye." He took a seat on the side of my bed, reaching for my hand. I couldn't feel it, too numb at the chance to see my Vince again.
         "Whit, please wake up."
         I had no idea where the second voice came from, only that it was Vince's voice, sounding delicate and childish, asking me a simple request. But my Vince was seated on my bed, holding on to my hand, his lips still moving, but there was no voice attached. The voice and the motion of his mouth did not match.
         My eyes jolted open, free of that weight and soreness. I lay on a pullout bed sprung from a white leather sofa, set upon a thick silver-gray rug, in a whiter room. No windows, no lights, but it was bright, very bright. "Ahh, there's my girl!" Vince praised me, bending to kiss my cheek. My heart thumped, leaping a hundred times its speed as I flew from the holds of the bed to wrap my arms around his neck. "Whoa!" He laughed. I took no notice of my clothing, changed from the papery hospital gown, to a flowing white gown with gold trim. "It's okay, it's all okay, now."
         I pulled away from him, looking deeply into his gold hazel eyes, twinkling merrily. Was I dreaming? The doctor said I should stay awake. Why? "Where are we, Vince?"
         He gave a sad, slow little smile, pulling me closer again, rocking me from side to side. "We're home, sweetie. We're home."