It's all fun and games until someone makes a mistake.
A mistake that lands John, the happy loveable derp, in a stiff hospital bed. Rosy cheeks faded to pale, hands gone cold. A coma they say, hah, Oh the irony. The precious kid who never wronged anybody in a FUCKING COMA while the kid who decided texting and driving was afabulousidea got away with some broken ribs, a small concussion and a stern wag of the finger.
I blame myself. While John would digress, saying it was his fault for not watching his driving, I know where the fault should lay.
It was my fault for insisting we go to a late night movie. My fault for letting him drive home. It should be me tucked under the cold white sheets, not him. Me hooked up to all those machines with their constant beeping, the only way I know he's still breathing. He should be the one up and healthy and happy and so ALIVE.
If I could go back in time, insist on driving or stop myself from recommending going to the movies all together. But the game ended 5 years ago, and no matter how much I wish for my time tables again, they won't be coming back.
So I sit a vigilant watch. Waiting. For a sign of life. For a flutter of eyelids or a twitch of a finger. For him to sit up, laugh it off, tell me it was all some elaborate prank to see me loose my cool, which was thrown out the window the moment I saw his frail form in the wreckage.
5 days pass. 5 days of pacing and sympathetic looks and the comforting words of strangers. 5 days of hoping, wishing, and I get my sign.
Some machine or another starts a rhythm new to my ears. A spike in brain activity.
John's finally waking up. Tears fill my eyes but I refuse to let them fall.
"Rise and shine sleeping beauty."
This was just something I had been meaning to write for a while and hey! This one actually made it to the editing block. R&R is very much appreciated 3