TITLE: The Quality of Darkness
SPOILERS: Anything from the series is fair game.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Drake & Josh. All are owned by Dan Schneider, et al. I am not profiting in any way except creatively.
Chapter 5: A Place of Suffering
Josh is standing in the tub, soaked to the skin, watching the two EMTs work feverishly on his brother, who's sprawled out on the floor between them. It had taken all his strength to yell out when they called from the foyer and now, watching them check Drake's vitals and evaluate his wounds, he feels like he's going to faint.
Someone is talking to him, but he can't understand the words. He looks to his right and sees a man with light brown hair looking back at him expectantly through blue-gray eyes.
"What?" Josh asks, his lips forming around the word like it was foreign to him.
"Do you know if he's taken anything?" the man asks him, his voice urgent.
Josh can see the EMT's lips moving, but the sound doesn't seem to match, like those really cheesy kung fu movies he and Drake like to watch late at night. It takes a long time for the words to line up coherently inside Josh's head. "No, I…" he fumbles, "I don't know." And he shakes his head, but the man has already turned away.
The two EMTs speak to each other in low tones and Josh wants to scream, What's taking you so long? because to him it feels like time has stopped.
In reality, less than two minutes has passed.
Sensory memories bombard him – the sound of his heart thumping in his ears; the sight of the light gleaming off the stethoscope pressed to Drake's chest; the lingering smell of soap; the feel of his wet clothes clinging to his skin; the taste of his own tears on his lips.
The clicking sound of the stretcher being lifted to its maximum height captures Josh's attention. "Where are you taking him?" he asks almost indignantly, like Drake's being arrested instead of rescued, like they're carting him off to jail instead of to the hospital.
"Mercy Hospital," the other one replies, throwing the words over his shoulder as he concentrates on securing Drake to the stretcher. He pulls the last strap tight, turns to look at Josh, who's still standing in the shower, unable to move. "You can ride with us if you want."
Josh still doesn't move, just watches them in silence as they finish up in the bathroom, gathering their things. One of them scrapes the wall with his bag, leaving a mark, and Josh thinks irrationally that his dad's going to be annoyed when he sees it; they just repainted the bathroom a month ago.
Suddenly they're gone. They've left him behind; they don't have time to wait for him. He can hear them heading down the stairs – one of them is talking on the radio, but he can't understand what they're saying. The voices trail off as they head for the front door.
"Wait," he says, and he thinks he's yelled it, but the word is only a whisper. He jumps out of the tub, running for the stairs. He's unconsciously favoring his right leg; his knee is starting to swell.
"Wait!" he says again, louder this time, hurtling down the stairs two at a time, gripping the railing tightly. When he bursts into the foyer, he can see them heading down the front walk towards the ambulance parked along the curb in front of their house. The flashing lights have already attracted some onlookers.
What if he dies? The question pops unbidden into his head and he tries to shake it off, but it lingers, and he realizes that that's really why he's running after them – he can't let his brother die alone.
The siren isn't as loud as he thought it would be from inside the ambulance and the red and blue lights cast an eerie glow over the scenery, he notices, as he glances out the back windows. He watches as the traffic that parted to let them pass falls back into place and suddenly it all seems vaguely biblical.
Hail Mary, full of grace…
He's not Catholic; he's not anything, really, but bits of a childhood parochial education keep popping into his head.
Whosoever believeth in him shall not perish…
The meek shall inherit the earth…
Thou shalt not kill.
This last one almost makes him laugh, except that nothing's funny, not anymore, and he's not sure anything ever will be again.
"How old is he?" The voice behind the words is gentle, but tinged with incredulity.
The question draws Josh back and he turns his eyes towards the EMT with the blue-gray eyes. His nametag, Josh can now see, says "Walsh." He knows the man already knows the answer; Josh gave all these details to the dispatcher what seems like a lifetime ago. But the look in the man's eyes reflects that in Josh's own – he just can't believe it.
"Seventeen," Josh replies and he sees the man's jaw clench – so young, the action says, such a waste – as he turns back towards Drake and busies himself with doing all he can to keep the boy alive.
Josh looks at his brother. He's too young to die, he thinks, but he's old enough to decide he wants to.
"I'd like to wake up now, please," Josh says as he stares at his brother's face and he doesn't realize he's said it out loud. The EMT casts him a sympathetic look over his shoulder but doesn't reply.
He thinks this must be what Hell is like. Or Purgatory. Or wherever it is that sinners go to suffer.
The lights are too bright, the air too cold, the room too noisy. But he doesn't notice any of it as he sits shivering in the waiting area, hunched over his knees, hands cradling his head, staring down at his feet. He doesn't know how long he's been there, but it can't have been too long, he thinks – his shoes are still wet.
He wants to cry, feels the tears form behind his eyes. But they won't fall. They did before – he remembers the taste of them on his lips – but now, as he closes his eyes, he can't even squeeze them out. He hates himself for it; his brother could be dead and he can't even shed a tear.
He's a terrible person.
A sudden vibration against his thigh makes him jump. Drake's cell phone, he realizes, as he reaches in his pocket for it. He didn't know he still had it. He must've shoved it in his pocket out of habit.
He flips it open and reads the screen – "Walter." He's calling from his cell phone and suddenly Josh can't breathe. Oh god. He's been avoiding this moment, hoping to put it off until he knew what to say. He's been waiting for the right words to materialize.
But there aren't any right words for this, he realizes, only the truth. And those words are cold. And they're sharp. And they're so very, very wrong.
It's been ringing for a long time and finally he presses his thumb against the TALK button before voicemail picks up, before another message is left unchecked.
"Hello?" he asks and closes his eyes against the emptiness in his own voice.
"Josh?" Walter asks, surprised. He can picture his dad checking his phone to see that he's dialed the right number.
"Yeah."
"I just tried your phone, but you didn't answer," Walter says and Josh can hear his dad's good mood. His cheerfulness seems profane at a time like this, but there's no way Walter can know that.
"It's broken." So am I. So is Drake. The world is broken.
Walter laughs, a sound that cuts Josh to his core. He opens his mouth to speak, but can't; he doesn't have the heart for it. Instead, he listens to Walter chatter away. "…not checking up on you, I swear. But you know your mom," he's saying, lowering his voice conspiratorially on that last part. "She worries. I keep telling her, 'Honey, they're fine. They can take care of themselves…'"
And at these words, something cracks inside Josh. "Dad…"
But Walter doesn't hear him, just keeps talking. "…but with Drake being sick all week…you know," he says suddenly, switching gears, "just between you and me, I don't think he was really sick; I just think he didn't want to go to school. And I think the only reason he even got out of bed this morning was to convince your mom it was okay to leave town." He laughs again and Josh wants to scream.
Josh feels like he's going to be sick and gets up, limping through the automatic doors into the warm night air. He sees a woman about twenty feet away nervously smoking a cigarette, aggressively chewing her thumbnail between drags. She casts him a look and he sees that she's been crying, dark rivulets of mascara creeping down her face. She turns away when she sees him looking at her.
He recognizes her pain.
He takes a deep breath as he leans against one of the pillars that line the main emergency entrance. His dad is still talking. "Dad," he says again, trying to get his attention. Listen to me! he wants to scream. He closes his eyes again.
"…forget to water your mom's plants," Walter's saying, his words stumbling over each other in their haste to exit his mouth. "Oh! And I told George he could borrow my drill, so if he stops by –"
"Drake tried to kill himself," Josh says quickly, cutting him off, his voice surprisingly unemotional. The words are heavy and bitter on his tongue.
Walter stops abruptly. He couldn't have just heard what he thinks he heard. "What?" he asks and Josh can hear the hint of pleading in his voice.
"We're at Mercy Hospital," he whispers. "Please hurry." And he pulls the phone away from his ear before his dad can say any more, presses the button to end the call, holds it down to turn off the phone.
The tears finally come, hot and fierce.
Hospitals are unique places, places where so many extremes can happen at once. People die. People are born. Joy and pain coalesce. Miracles, if there are such things, happen. The hope for a miracle fades away.
A man and his wife – wild-eyed and frazzled, wearing their worry like a yoke around their necks – round the corner in a hallway lit by nighttime lighting. The man holds his wife's hand tightly, as if it's the only thing keeping them both from crumbling into dust. The woman's eyes are red and shining.
A tall young man, weighed down by a grief he's been bearing alone for hours, stands to greet them. The woman, his mother in all the ways it really matters, grasps his arm and looks beseechingly into his eyes.
Tell me, she begs him. Tell me it's all a terrible mistake.
But her son shakes his head. He doesn't have the words to take that look from her eyes. All he has to tell her is the terrible truth.
The woman's knees give out and she starts to sink; the two men have to help her to a chair, they have to be her strength. They sit down next to her, one on each side. Her husband still holds one hand, her son takes the other.
In a dimly lit room not far from where they sit, another young man, bruised by a life he no longer wants, opens his eyes long before anyone expected him to. He's disoriented at first, but then the muted, steady beeping cuts through the fog in his head and confirms what, for him, is an awful truth.
He's still alive.
I just couldn't do it...Drake & Josh without Drake is like a bike with a flat tire - less fun.
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