they nod, smile slightly sadly and ask if they can come in.
and so it comes to ten o'clock on a wednesday evening and i'm sitting on the sofa telling two police officers whether you have run away before, where you might go, what you might do, if you may do anything at all in fact.
i phone friends. ask for numbers. my hands are shaking because i think you're dead. or least, i think you will be.
their radio go brrrb on their shoulders. and they listen, rodger! they say. and, it looks like they've found her. got all the way into the city centre, you might have been getting a knock from not just this evening.
then they leave. swift as they came in a veil of kind official manners.
we find out you're in hospital, od'd you did. the thing that surprises me is that i'm not even surprised. i'm preparing for your funeral like it's a date that's been set. i don't know how much long your soul can hold your body together.
and you're worrying about the other R and we are both worrying about the both of you and nobody has a fucking clue what to do. so call other R's mother, tell her what's happened and try to act hopefully and as if "it will all be okay."
but it's never going to be okay for you, is it? not after what he did to you. what they did to you. what they did to us.
are you going to stop R? are you going to stop before time runs out? or is running out of time what you are looking for?
i can't hold you all together. R and other R. you need to stand on your own feet, take down your own masks and draw back the gun you're holding to your own heads.
i love you but i can't save you and i can't accept that.