Presence

"I don't know why people get birthday presents. It's stupid," I say. I lie on my bed, and Lance lies the opposite way, his feet against mine so that we make an L shape. He's too tall to fit horizontally, so he positioned my desk chair so that his head and shoulders are on it, a little of his body suspended in space, and the rest of him on the bed. He fell more than a few times before he perfected the balance.

"I think there are more important things than getting presents for existing for another year," I continue. "I think we should give presents to the people around us, for staying with us for so long. For being our friends and family. For loving us. I think we should celebrate important things, like coming into life and leaving it." The stitches on my stomach ache, and my lungs burn; recently, I have been feeling as if I cannot get enough air. The feeling will not go. When I asked the doctor about it, he just looked at me sadly. Obviously, it is not a good thing. I try not to dwell on it too much.

"So, let me see if I heard you right," Lance drawls. "You want to celebrate your departure from life, but you want to do that by giving other people presents?"

"Yes. Expect a funeral present from me. Something to remember me by," I say.

"I hate when you say stuff like that." His voice is hushed but resigned.

"But you understand it."

"Unfortunately," he says drily.

"So, what is it, exactly, that we're doing?" Olivia asks, pulling her hair over her shoulder.

"We're buying funeral presents," Tom says, pushing my chair.

"And what are they?"

"A present to say thank you, for everyone who stays with me. For loving me, knowing that I'm leaving and still loving me," I say. Tom leans down and presses his lips to the top of my head, and I smile a little as he pushes me around a corner.

"You don't need to do this, Sylvie," Olivia says, quietly. "Having you is enough. You're enough."

When I look up at her, there are tears in her eyes. "But I do, dear Olive," I tell her. "Because I have such amazing friends, and they go around their lives with little or no recognition, and that makes me sad."

"And this will make you happy?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Undoubtedly so," I say.

"Right. Ok. Let's do this." Her voice is a little choked, and I watch her gather herself: wipe carefully beneath her eyes and take a deep breath, straighten her shoulders. She runs out ahead of us in her heels - a feat I think deserves a reward, because they're spectacularly high - to a store navigator and taps at it as Tom pushes me forwards.

"I understand what you're doing, Syl," Tom says, his voice soft. "But don't feel as if you have to buy me something. All I want is to talk to you. That's enough, for me."

I think about this, and it feels like there is something stuck in my throat. I take a breath, and another. "Then that's what I'll give you," I say.

We stop behind Olive, and he rests his hand on my shoulder. I put mine over his for a moment, and then drop it back to my lap wearily. My every breath aches and burns, and the line of stitches on my stomach itches madly. I try not to notice.

"Ok," Olivia says loudly. "This way, children." She skips towards the elevator, and Tom sighs.

"Sometimes, I think she's not coping as well as she seems to be," he says.

We watch her wave at us and press the button over and over, the elevator light blinking above her.

"Me too," I say softly. "Take care of her, Tom."

"I didn't need you to tell me that," Tom says, a little indignant, making me smile.

"Sometimes, it's fun to state the obvious and then take credit for the effects," I tell him.

He laughs and starts to push the chair towards Olive. If I could preserve the sound of the voices, the laughter of my friends and family, and keep them locked inside of me forever, I would.

I think for a moment, my fingers absently fiddling with my infinity charm. And I know what to get Tom.

People are staring. Sylva can feel their eyes on her as they gather in a circle. Olivia is crying into her phone, sobbing, shopping bags strewn dramatically around her; if something different were happening, Syl might have laughed. But, as it is, she can't really do anything that involves laughing or speaking, and this isn't exactly the funniest situation.

She coughs into her hand, curled into the chair, and blood spatters across her lap, black on her jeans, scarlet on her skin. Her throat is burning burning burning she can't breathe can't speak but she can see and she can feel and she can hear, and Olivia's sobs drive into her like rusted nails.

Tom comes running, then. He pushes people out of the way. When he sees her, he drops the drink he went to buy; the foam cup caves in on itself, liquid splattering onto the floor, the bottoms of his pants, the people around him. They back away, but he moves forwards, taking in the situation with a quick flicker of his eyes. Olivia is screaming at the phone; they don't understand her through her tears. Tom calmly takes the phone and speaks into it, telling the paramedics where they are. Then he hangs up, gives the phone to Olivia, and crouches in front of Sylva.

"Syl," he says, softly, smoothing her hair back from her face; it is clotted with drying blood, heavy and wet, silver and crimson.

She wants to say something, anything, but her hands are covering her mouth. And then she shakes; a shudder rippling through her body. Her back arches against the chair, her hands moving to grip the armrests. Tom's hands move, holding her shoulders, steadying her. She rocks forwards.

And blood spills from between her lips.

Spills down her chin.

Spatters Tom's t-shirt, so that the white is dotted with red.

Red red red red covering everything. A woman screams. In the distance, an ambulance wails. Olivia stands behind Tom, covering her mouth, surrounded by shopping and crying, crying as if her world is breaking.

And Tom holds Sylva's shoulders. He blinks as a drop of blood rolls down the side of his nose, beside his eye. And then he pulls the sleeve of his jacket over his hand, and wipes the blood from Sylva's face with careful fingers. "You'll be alright, Syl," he says.

She tries to laugh, but it is more of a choking sound; they both know that isn't true. "Liar," she says, and blood bubbles at the corner of her lips. He wipes it away with his thumb, smiling sadly. The pounding feet of paramedics and the rattling sound of a gurney fill the space, and the gathered crowd parts. "Don't forget my presents," she says.

And then her body convulses, and the paramedics push Tom out of the way, and she slips, as if her body is boneless, into the arms of the paramedics, a bloody froth between her lips, her eyes bright and seeing nothing but pain.