After a while it's pretty easy to let go of time.
A few weeks in a cramped army cot, smothered in morphine sleep, with only Gage to talk to, well, this could be weeks or it could be eternities.
Minutes, maybe.
Gage is the only life that remains. The rest of the house has been emptied. Big monkey mission, Operation Avalon Pegasus. Whatever that means.
Gage, his mission is Operation Babysit Jack.
Seriously.
Gage, he tells me that Tyler's in Dover or somewhere. Maybe all the way in Pittsburgh. Taking over, starting franchises.
I'd be there if I wasn't still crushed.
Me, I'm not healing any. My windpipe is still crushed. My ribs still twinge.
At least now I can make it to the bathroom. I don't even want to tackle the stairs.
Gage has been feeding me with money Tyler sends. I guess this means that somewhere my saint still cares.
Most of the time this means he sends pizza money for the babysitter.
The one thing you notice is the endless boredom. Gage brings me books but they're useless.
Mostly he just talks. Tells me stories about Macy's or Angel Face or how much Tyler talks about me.
Comfort comes in the form of words.
At nights I still lie awake. Hope for the sound of a car, of Tyler's Gucci loafers on the stairs.
Even with Gage, I'm alone.
This is the period of static. The intermission. The interlude. Morphine haze and Gage and his hands and his forehead kisses. Babysitter.
I think he loves me.
Fuck.
Gage loves me.
Fuck.
