It was evening, and Frankie had gone out to get coffee for practically the fifteenth time, because I refused to sleep even a wink with Paulie here needing my attention. He'd taken Cha Cha with him, getting him out of the hospital for a bit of normalcy, some fresh air. To make him less stressed.

During one of these, Paulie had been moved to a room upstairs and I'd followed. His doctor told me he'd be in this hospital for a couple of days, then he'd be put in a drug rehabilitation center upstate for a while. They couldn't give me any kind of idea of for how long and I didn't protest. I only asked if I could visit him there and they said they didn't know.

Now I was sitting in the room alone, the only chair in the room next to Paulie's head as he slept away. He'd slept all day, never moving from that spot. There was a picture of a sailboat in here, framed by blonde wood. It looked like something you'd find in a baby's room, made of silly patterned cloth and just ridiculous all around. I wondered why they'd put such a thing in here. Though, I supposed this could be a place where babies were born, where new mothers-

"Hey."

-were taught how to take care of their babies, really a family sort of-

"Geor...gina...?"

I gasped, my eyes freezing on the sailboat.

"What're you...looking at?"

"Um..." I paused. The sound of Paulie's voice was scratchy, barely there. Memories rushed to me, about when I'd first seen him in the room downstairs, the questions about what to say to him. "I'm looking at a sailboat."

"Sailboat? ...Where's that?"

"It's a picture on the wall."

"Yeah...? That's nice."

"Yeah."

Finally, I looked at him. He was staring at me, unblinking. His eyes were bloodshot. There was still a little bit of orange vomit crust at the left corner of his mouth, neglected by the nurse who'd cleaned him up earlier.

"Um. You've got a...here, I'll get it," I said, licking my thumb and wiping the corner of his mouth. I wiped this on Frankie's pants, because I'd be washing them anyway.

"What...was that?"

"Vomit."

"Ohh...eww."

"It's just yours."

"But why...would you...eww."

"Moron."

"Huh?"

"You're a moron."

All of the feelings I had felt back in the apartment, under the snow, in the waiting room, everywhere were suddenly coming back. Even feelings from the bathroom at the club. Especially feelings from the bathroom at the club. Anger, but also pain.

"Sorry?"

"You called Cha Cha. You relapsed, you-"

"Sorry..."

"How could you?"

"Geor...gina...it's not a...relapse."

"What?" I looked down at him. He was still looking up at me. I wanted him to blink, but he didn't. Just staring. It looked like it hurt.

"It's not...a relapse...I never stopped...using..."

"What?" My eyes felt heavy, but I blinked. I blinked for both of us, because his eyes...

"I never...stopped...using...I'm sor- sorry..." Tears came to them, filling them with much needed moisture. One leaked towards his nose, but I didn't move to wipe it away. Not this time.

His voice was so scratchy. I found myself filling the thick plastic cup on the table with water from the pitcher. I gave this to him but he didn't move, didn't move to try to right himself from his laid side position, nothing.

"Paulie, drink this." My voice was dead. No feeling. I didn't feel anything now.

"I ca- can't..." More tears were falling on his face.

"Drink it."

His voice came rattling, and snot was running down his nose now as he cried, not trying to hide it.

"Come on, Paulie." I sighed, putting the cup back on the table. Somehow, I was able to wrap my good arm around his laid body and with superhuman effort I was able to prop him up against the headboard. Where he immediately slumped over. "Come on, dammit." I pulled him back to a sitting position, where he finally held.

His crying was becoming blubbery now, almost like a cartoon, but too real.

"Drink this," I said again, offering him the cup.

He wouldn't stop, just staring straight ahead at the sailboat now.

"Come on."

No response.

"Do I need to force feed you? What do you want me-"

"Georgina...I tried...to kill myself..."

"Excuse me?" I lowered the cup to my lap slowly, trying to comprehend what he'd just said. It didn't feel correct.

"I tried...to kill myself...because Avi..."

"What?"

"Because I...I want Avi..." His voice crumpled in his throat. "I want- I want Avi..." His face followed his voice, becoming red, ugly. Tears streamed down his crumpled face, like dirty rainwater running over a soggy bag in the gutter.

I paused, unsure what to do. The only thing I was sure about was I wasn't going to reach over and hug him for this. But what was I supposed to do? The boiling in my heart answered for me.

"You're a moron."

"I know," he coughed. His hands gripped the white hospital blanket, but not very well. How weak he was. He breathed in gasps, crying like some kid who just got his milk money stolen, humiliating and bare.

"Avi made you his whore, and you still want him? Are you a complete idiot?" The feeling from my heart bubbled to the surface and I was unable to stop it even if I wanted to. I really didn't want to.

"I kn-know...I am..."

"He just made you try to kill yourself and you still want him?"

"I know..." he began to wail a little bit, coughing and wailing. I felt absolutely no sympathy.

"I oughta punch you for real."

"What do you me-mean?" His throat seemed to be doing better with all of the tears rolling down it. No need for water. He didn't deserve any. I put the cup back on the table with force, causing it to slosh over the lip.

He was looking at me wide eyed, his mouth curled down in fear.

I held up my injured hand and he winced, probably expecting me to punch him with it. "This," I said pointedly. My finger was still a little swollen, but not noticeably. "I punched the wall because of you. I wanted to punch you. Goddammit. And I should have. Maybe it would have knocked you the fuck out of this shit."

"How can you say that?" he looked very hurt now, but I didn't give a damn.

"I'm glad they're taking you away, because for damn sure you need help. You've gone insane. They should put you in a psych ward. Lock you up."

"Georgina..." he sounded absolutely appalled, his voice even higher than normal.

I pressed my lips together, staring at the sailboat, too. Studying the baby polka dot patterns, the horizontal stripes. I began to chew the inside of my cheek, trying to figure this feeling out.

"Georgina...how can you sa- say that?" he was gasping again, making little sobbing noises.

I didn't look at him.

"Georgina...?"

"What?" I felt like I was pressing my eyes against the little sailboat. I may as well have been on it I was avoiding him so hard.

"When I took the-" he choked. "When I took the LSD and stuff, I just wanted to see you. I wanted to see you...I was so sorry after I took it. I just wanted to see you. I never should have done that stuff. I wanted to say...say I was sorry. I was sorry. I'm sorry!"

I was looking at him now, and he winced at my disdain, my disgust.

"I'm sorry," he said again quietly, staring at me with those unblinking eyes.

I stared back at him for a little while, at his ugly crying face. Then I got up from my chair. His eyes followed me as I walked to the door.

"Once again, you ugly mug, I'm not the one you should be saying sorry to." Thinking better of it, I swooped around to the bed. He recoiled, trying to get away from me, but there was no way he could. The fear in his eyes told me he thought I was about to physically attack him. Instead, I yelled at him, throttling him with my voice. "How dare you? How dare you? You involved Cha Cha again. You fucking called him! I hate you!"

"I'm sorryyy," he squeaked, crying pathetically, "I'm sorryyy..."

I stood over him, towering over him. He looked like a sick child.

"I'm sorryyy...I shouldn't have called h-him...I should have just diiied... I should have diiied..." He started wailing, his fat tears falling into his lap. "I didn't want this... I should have diiied... I'm sor-ryyy, I'm sor-ryyy...!" He was squealing like a pig going to slaughter now, completely lost.

A few moments passed, the room filled with his laborious crying, scream sobbing his apology over and over.

He gasped as my arms wrapped around him and he began crying anew, relaxing into me and hiccupping. I rubbed my face into his wet cheek, the tears warm.

"Georgi- ina, I'm sor- ry," he hiccupped like a little baby.

"I know."

"I'm sor- ry!"

"I know."

"I'm sorry." This last one was a whisper.

"I know. Shh. Just get better."

He didn't say anything else, just began to rock back and forth. It was a nervous thing he did, several levels over when he shoved his fingers in his hair. It meant he was very, very worried and didn't know the solution. I rocked with him as he cried silently and grossly. I didn't mind.

Because when he was screaming his apology, I realized I was sorry, too. I couldn't be angry at him, because he was lost. He was sick. Very, very sick. Yelling wasn't what he needed. He needed help.