I want to say that Phil got better. I want to say that more antibiotics and a few days in the hospital cured him of his immediate illness, and he started to be medicated for the underlying autoimmune disease. I want to say that he never had to go back to Dane, and we both got minimum wage jobs and lived in a motel across town, until we got promoted high enough to afford a small apartment. I want to say that we got to start a happy life together, by each other's side and slowly falling deeper and deeper in love. I want to say we eventually got married and adopted two puppies and lived long lives and died in old age when we were ready.
But none of that ever happened.
We got to the clinic when my parents weren't around, thank god. Phil got checked out and then transferred to an actual hospital. Medicine didn't do shit. It took two more days for the illness to worsen to pneumonia. I sat beside him for a few days, not leaving his side and telling him it would be alright when I knew and he knew that it wasn't. He insisted on holding my hand still, and I gladly complied. His grip was weak and only grew weaker as the days dragged on, but he never let go. He was still holding my hand when he died.
It was tragic, of course, but I didn't write this story to mourn his death. I wrote this to show the life of a kid thrust into horrible circumstances in this world in which people are so content to pretend that this kind of thing doesn't happen every day. But while this is a tale exploring what goes on in the city after dark, it's also an incredibly personal one. I loved Phil. I still do, even if I never got the courage to tell him before it was too late. But if he's out there, somewhere, I hope he knows that I do love him, and always will. I've moved on in the years since –I'm married to a wonderful man and we adopted two puppies and we'll probably live long lives and die in old age when we're ready. But someone was never given that chance for a decent happy life. This is for him, and this was his story.