Disclaimer: no one mentioned belongs to me, I guarantee it.
(Really now, if they did, I'd have the Gordo, Tudgeman, and Mr. Dig Hour. Now that's quality programming.)
This little piece is something that's been sitting about, it's been awhile since I've done something in first person. Hmm...that's all I really have to say about it, I guess.
*Karasuma*Firestorm*
The Worst That Could Happen
Prologue
~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~
Life hates me.
God hates me.
At the moment, I don't even know if I believe in God. I don't know if I believe in anything. I don't know anything anymore. You think everything is finally going right, you think that even the worst parts are turning out to not be that bad, that you're just exaggerating about things, and then something like this happens.
I've been numb since the call. I answered the phone, hoping it was Gordo or Miranda, wanting to do something to kill the rest of this dull Saturday afternoon. It wasn't, it was Mrs. Gordon, and she wanted to talk to my mom. Whatever. Mom stuff, it didn't pertain to me, I wordlessly handed the phone over and went into the living room to see if there were any Iron Chef reruns on. My dad had really gotten me into the show, and I found myself watching the Food Network more than any other channel.
No Iron Chef, but Emeril was on, and I watched it without hesitation or added channel-surfing; I'm a sucker for that stupid "BAM!"
My mom floated into the room, looking like a ghost, and yet at the same time like the weight of the world was on her shoulders, and I turned off the TV, alarmed. "What is it?"
She didn't say anything, just sort of stared at me, but like she didn't even see me.
"Mom? What's wrong?"
I knew before she'd said anything, this horrible pit in my stomach that just screamed that something was wrong, but she said it anyway, dazed.
"It's Gordo...he's in the hospital."
Hospital. It was such a dirty word, such a scary word, such an evil word with awful implications. It had always had bad connotations for me, since having my appendix out earlier that year. But now... Who would've thought that a simple noun could be so sinister?
"What happened?"
"Some sort of car accident. He was riding his bike..."
Mom continued her story, but I tuned her out, my thoughts akin to a runaway train. Gordo had a bike? Gordo rode bikes? Physical activity? It didn't compute, it just...oh, wait, of course he had a bike, because he and Miranda and I had rode to the park on the other side of town last weekend to have a picnic. Of course he had a bike.
"Is he okay?" I asked. Which meant, 'how bad is it?'
"He's...he's in a coma, honey." Mom was looking at me strangely, but I ignored it. Coma. If hospital had sounded sinister, coma was far, far worse.
My dad wandered in then. I didn't know if he was coming in from the kitchen, or if he was just coming home. "Jo, the microwave door's stuck again...oh, hey, Lizzie. I didn't know you were home. I thought you'd be out on a Saturday afternoon. Hey, know if Iron Chef is on?"
"Sam, now's not the time."
"Can we go to see him?" I asked.
"See who?"
"Well, honey, I don't know if they're letting anyone other than family visit..." my mom hedged.
I stood up. I had to see him. "I'm family."
She looked at me, and sensed that arguing was going to get her nowhere. And if she didn't drive me, I would have found a way to get there, maybe I'd take my own bike and maybe I'd be hit by a car, and I'd be in a coma, and we could be in a coma together, and either way, I'd be with him. Being alone was not an option. He had to know.
"Fine, let me get my keys."
"Wait, what's going on?" my dad asked.
Mom kissed him on the cheek as I left the room. "I'll call you when we get there, okay?"
"Get where?"
(Really now, if they did, I'd have the Gordo, Tudgeman, and Mr. Dig Hour. Now that's quality programming.)
This little piece is something that's been sitting about, it's been awhile since I've done something in first person. Hmm...that's all I really have to say about it, I guess.
*Karasuma*Firestorm*
The Worst That Could Happen
Prologue
~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~
Life hates me.
God hates me.
At the moment, I don't even know if I believe in God. I don't know if I believe in anything. I don't know anything anymore. You think everything is finally going right, you think that even the worst parts are turning out to not be that bad, that you're just exaggerating about things, and then something like this happens.
I've been numb since the call. I answered the phone, hoping it was Gordo or Miranda, wanting to do something to kill the rest of this dull Saturday afternoon. It wasn't, it was Mrs. Gordon, and she wanted to talk to my mom. Whatever. Mom stuff, it didn't pertain to me, I wordlessly handed the phone over and went into the living room to see if there were any Iron Chef reruns on. My dad had really gotten me into the show, and I found myself watching the Food Network more than any other channel.
No Iron Chef, but Emeril was on, and I watched it without hesitation or added channel-surfing; I'm a sucker for that stupid "BAM!"
My mom floated into the room, looking like a ghost, and yet at the same time like the weight of the world was on her shoulders, and I turned off the TV, alarmed. "What is it?"
She didn't say anything, just sort of stared at me, but like she didn't even see me.
"Mom? What's wrong?"
I knew before she'd said anything, this horrible pit in my stomach that just screamed that something was wrong, but she said it anyway, dazed.
"It's Gordo...he's in the hospital."
Hospital. It was such a dirty word, such a scary word, such an evil word with awful implications. It had always had bad connotations for me, since having my appendix out earlier that year. But now... Who would've thought that a simple noun could be so sinister?
"What happened?"
"Some sort of car accident. He was riding his bike..."
Mom continued her story, but I tuned her out, my thoughts akin to a runaway train. Gordo had a bike? Gordo rode bikes? Physical activity? It didn't compute, it just...oh, wait, of course he had a bike, because he and Miranda and I had rode to the park on the other side of town last weekend to have a picnic. Of course he had a bike.
"Is he okay?" I asked. Which meant, 'how bad is it?'
"He's...he's in a coma, honey." Mom was looking at me strangely, but I ignored it. Coma. If hospital had sounded sinister, coma was far, far worse.
My dad wandered in then. I didn't know if he was coming in from the kitchen, or if he was just coming home. "Jo, the microwave door's stuck again...oh, hey, Lizzie. I didn't know you were home. I thought you'd be out on a Saturday afternoon. Hey, know if Iron Chef is on?"
"Sam, now's not the time."
"Can we go to see him?" I asked.
"See who?"
"Well, honey, I don't know if they're letting anyone other than family visit..." my mom hedged.
I stood up. I had to see him. "I'm family."
She looked at me, and sensed that arguing was going to get her nowhere. And if she didn't drive me, I would have found a way to get there, maybe I'd take my own bike and maybe I'd be hit by a car, and I'd be in a coma, and we could be in a coma together, and either way, I'd be with him. Being alone was not an option. He had to know.
"Fine, let me get my keys."
"Wait, what's going on?" my dad asked.
Mom kissed him on the cheek as I left the room. "I'll call you when we get there, okay?"
"Get where?"