Back from the Brink

By Graham A Taylor

Chapter 1

The room smelled of antiseptic and of someone leaving soon. It was a thin, clinical smell mixed with the smell of old sweat and skin slowly rotting on bones. Jane stood by the window, her fingers cool against the glass. The April chill made her breath fog up a little. Outside, the rain hit the windows hard, like a thousand soft fists that made it hard to talk and, in a way, unnecessary. Robert's shallow, regular breaths were like a metronome behind her. Each rasp pulled at the silence, stealing the air they had once filled together. She put her palm flat against the glass and felt a slight tremor in her hand and the roughness where a ring used to rub. She looked at the garden that Robert had insisted on taking care of, even last summer when his hands were too shaky to hold the trowel straight. The daffodils bent over because of the weather, their heads heavy with water and their petals holding on to each other to stay warm. She wondered for the second time today if they would get better. If they would bloom without him next year. Jane thought memory was especially cruel because it brought back memories she would rather forget, making them as clear as the rain that was now streaking the glass. She could still taste the metallic taste of fear and teenage lust as if it were spring 1990 again, when the headteacher's office smelt like old leather and disappointment. The hard floor had made her knees hurt. They had been caught—no, she had been caught. Tom had left long before the echo of footsteps in the hallway turned into the click of sensible shoes and the sharp intake of breath that would change everything in a heartbeat. She couldn't remember the words of the lecture. The headteacher's icy stare, like he was looking at a stain that wouldn't come out, her mother's silence, which was as fragile as spun sugar, and the way the world had shrunk to the shame that clung to her skin. She was kicked out of home and school at sixteen with only one suitcase and nowhere to go but her aunt's house. Her aunt looked at her like she were something strange that had been scraped off the pavement. The taste of rejection was strong, but it went away after a while, replaced by something better: the freedom of not having to meet anyone's expectations. Jane wondered if Robert had ever really understood that part of her, the part that had survived by not regretting what she had done, only the fact that she had been so careless. She had never let herself feel regret. She had learnt to swallow it and let it sit low in her stomach, where it turned into a kind of fuel.

Robert made a noise behind her, a soft, wet cough that sounded deep in his throat. She turned right away, her old instinct kicking in: to smooth his hair back from his forehead, to straighten the blanket and act like those gestures still meant something to both of them. His eyes opened and closed quickly, their pale blue colour standing out against the parchment of his skin. He tried to talk, but couldn't. His cracked and dry lips moved, but no sound came out.

Jane sat down and put her hand under the covers with his. His fingers used to be strong and square, but now they were weak, with swollen knuckles and nails that looked like half moons.

She squeezed lightly, and for a moment, his thumb moved in response. There was a time, years ago, when he couldn't stop touching her. He would mindlessly trace the curve of her collarbone in bed, hands sliding up her thighs under the dinner table, a private world of signals and secret smiles. His touch was now a ghost, a memory that was fading away. in their quiet time together. Jane had told him in the beginning, before they had built up trust between them, that she had been kicked out of school. They had been naked, with their arms and legs all mixed up. The sheets were twisted around her ankle, and she could still taste Robert's skin on her lips. She said it to see how he would react, looking for the flinch and the recoil on his face. He had shrugged, a crooked smile on his face when he said, "Well, you've always been good at getting into trouble. She laughed, surprised by how good it felt, warmth blossoming in her chest.

But he had never asked for the specifics. Not really. He wanted to keep her from herself, like men do sometimes, thinking that defiance was damage. She would let him. For the most part, it had worked for twenty years.

She watched his chest rise and fall, each breath costing her a coin.

Devices beeped softly, a reminder that time was measured here in heartbeats

and organs that aren't working. Jane ran her thumb over the back of his hand and felt the the skin was thin and papery, and the pulse was weak. She thought about what his last thought would be.

Would it be her, sitting here with a smell of old coffee and cold coffee, sadness, or would it be something nicer? Maybe the way she used to laugh before the world had worn them out.

The rain slowed down, and the sound on the glass turned into a constant whisper.

Jane leaned forward so that her lips were close to Robert's ear. She spoke in a low, steady voice, not sure if he could hear her, but she needed the words to be there between them. "Do you remember Paris?" "she said, her voice catching on the 'r.' "The hotel with the broken lift and the street that smelt like fresh bread and pee?""

She smiled as she remembered how Robert cursed as they carried their bags up five flights of stairs and Jane laughed so hard she almost dropped hers. The city outside their hotel.

The Seine was dark and swollen, and taxis were honking at everything that moved. They had sex in that small bed, where the sheets were rough and the mattress was soft. Jane's fingers dug into Robert's shoulders as he pressed down into her, slowly and without stopping, their bodies entwined in a hunger that felt like it would keep them alive.
She could still recall the way he’d bitten her shoulder—unexpected, almost savage, a mark that lasted days. Later, walking through the city with his teeth on her skin, she’d felt invincible. They’d stolen oranges from a market stall, eaten them in the shadow of Notre-Dame, juice sticky on their fingers, laughing at the absurdity of it all. That was before the first scare at the hospital, before they’d started counting years instead of possibilities.

The room was colder now. Jane stood, moving to the radiator, twisting the dial out of habit. It didn’t respond. The nurses would bring more blankets later, she supposed, or maybe it was her own chill, the way her blood seemed to move slower these days. She glanced at the clock—half past five. The sky outside was already bruising, blue fading to the grey of exhaustion.

She thought about the girl she’d been, all knees and sharp elbows, mouth too quick, heart too reckless. She wondered what that girl would make of this—of Robert, of herself, sitting vigil in a borrowed chair, watching love turn to something smaller, quieter, but no less fierce. She thought of the school gates closing behind her, the way the world had seemed both impossibly wide and unbearably hostile. She’d survived by becoming hard, by laughing louder, by refusing to apologise. It had left marks—on her relationships, on the way she moved through the world, always braced for the next rejection.

And then there was Robert. He’d been steady, even when she’d tried to push him away. She remembered their first real row, years before, the way she’d hurled words like weapons, breaking crockery just to hear something shatter. He’d watched her, calm, and then, with a quiet fury that surprised her, swept the shards into the bin and told her, “You don’t scare me, Jane. But you’ll bleed yourself dry if you keep this up.” She’d wanted to hit him then, and instead, she’d kissed him, desperate to be forgiven for something neither of them could name.

Now, she let her fingers stray over his wrist, feeling the fine bones, the pulse weak and uncertain. His eyelids fluttered, and for a moment, she saw him as he’d been—shoulders broad, laughter booming, the smell of sawdust and sweat clinging to him after long days at the workshop. He’d hated gloves, said they dulled his sense of touch. She remembered the calluses on his palms, the way he’d knead her shoulders, press his hand to the small of her back when they danced in the kitchen, the radio playing tinny old pop songs.

She missed that—missed the certainty of his body, the way he’d hold her in the dark, their breaths synchronising, heartbeats echoing. Now she counted each one, afraid of when they’d stop.

The door creaked open, the nurse—a different one, younger, with hair pulled into a severe bun—stepped in, clipboard in hand. She gave Jane a thin smile, professional but not unkind. “He’s comfortable,” she said, voice gentle, eyes flicking to the machines. “Is there anyone you’d like us to call?”

Jane shook her head. “No one left.” The words tasted bitter, final. The nurse nodded and withdrew, the door clicking softly behind her.

Jane let her head drop into her hands, elbows digging into her knees. She was tired, but she couldn’t leave, not yet. Too much unsaid. Too much unfinished. She wondered what Robert would have wanted her to say. Sorry, perhaps, for all the ways she’d failed him. For the things she’d kept hidden—her fear, her anger, the way she’d sometimes wanted to run. For the words she’d bitten back, the secrets she’d never shared, the longing for something she couldn’t name.

She thought of that day in the headmaster’s office, the shame, the burning need to be anywhere else. She thought of the way her mother’s eyes had slid away, unable to look at her. She’d learned, then, to let silence fill the spaces where love ought to be. It was safer, sometimes, than the truth.

But with Robert, the silence had never settled. He’d filled it with touch, with laughter, with the quiet certainty of his presence. Even now, as he slipped away, his hand in hers, she felt anchored, tethered to the world by the memory of his steadiness. She didn’t know how she’d manage without it, without him.

The rain had stopped. Outside, the garden shimmered, wet and green, the daffodils lifting their heads. Jane watched them, willing herself to remember, to hold on to the small, bright things: the scent of damp earth, the sound of Robert’s laughter, the taste of oranges in the Paris rain. She pressed her lips to his forehead, the skin cold and fragile, and whispered, “I’m still here. I always was.”

And for the first time in hours, she let herself cry—silent, shaking sobs, the kind that left her hollowed out but lighter, somehow. She held his hand as the light faded, the room filling with shadow and memory, and waited for the moment when she would have to say goodbye.