I didn't care when they pulled me out of the car. I also didn't care that there were photographer after photographer all catching my crowning moment. I didn't care about how they dragged me by my arms, hard enough to leave bruises, down the hospital halls back to my old room. I didn't care when the tugged me in and close the door behind.
I did care, though, about the flower by my bed side.
I didn't care when they stripped me down and put cold garments on my already freezing body.
I did care about how the flower was wilting.
I didn't care when they shoved me on the bed.
I watched the flowers petal come loose.
I didn't care when they told me I wouldn't leave.
The petals were rotting away at the edges, brown mingled with violet.
And I most certainly didn't care when they left me.
I did care, though, that the flowers petal had floated off of the bulb.
….
I wonder how my companions would see me now.
Would they see the same old brilliant, prideful man they had grown so familiar with in our years together? Would they see an ailing man sitting on the edge of a bed, staring into the abyss of nothing? Or would they see a shell, still retaining that prideful appearance, but with the personality and mindset of someone who had gone through too much?
I couldn't help but wonder this as the room door opened and the nurse stepped in.
The days had begun to seem longer now.
…
I hadn't expected any visitors, but he came anyway, in his usual beat up tweed suit, with a briefcase by his side.
"Hello, Edward." He murmured as he stepped through to door. I ignored him. I didn't bother looking back as I heard the sound of the door closing, or his briefcase hitting the floor. Nor did I look when I heard his sigh as he sat in the chair beside me.
"How are things?" Was the question he posed.
"How are you here?" Was the question I retorted with. He looked at me, with his inquisitive blue eyes, and shrugged.
"I wasn't caught."
"Bullshit."
"You know I don't lie, Edward. Unlike you I actually got away before anyone could drag me to a cell."
"This isn't a cell."
"Oh, you're right. It's an ICU." He said the word ICU with a more venomous tone, and I couldn't help but sneer a bit.
"Yes, an ICU. Isn't it just grand?" I shot back. On that note, we both fell silent. It was a few moments before he made any motions. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a package, and a box of matches.
"Jonathan, you can't smoke in a goddamn ICU." I snapped. He glanced over at me, before standing and sauntering his way to the large glass window. He opened it with one rough tug. The cold autumn air rushed into the room and I couldn't help but shiver. He seemed oblivious to this, and situated himself on the windows ledge, before pulling out a cigarette and a match. He struck the match once against the box and the brilliant flame ignited. It danced away as it was brought to the end of the cigarette, and ceased its performance as it was flicked out the window.
"Shouldn't the windows have screens?" I asked from the bed. Jonathan chuckled.
"They should be locked better too. Shows you how much Gotham cares for its terminally ill." I didn't say anything, but instead scooted to the end of my bed and gestured my hand at him.
"Come here and help me up. I need fresh air myself." I ordered. He glanced back at me, before giving another slight smirk and sticking the cigarette in his mouth. He stood up and walked towards me before taking my arm, less harshly than those who brought me here, and helping me to my feet. I leaned heavily against him as he guided me to the window and didn't let go until I was comfortably seated on the ledge. He sat beside me and exhaled smoke into the bitter air. He smelt of green apple; Jonathan always smoked green apple cigarettes in the fall.
We both fell into a silence as we stared out into the Gotham smog. It seemed like hours passed before Jonathan spoke.
"You know," He said. I looked over to him.
"Know what?"
"You know, I never realized just how much of a shit hole this place is. Of course, I've spent a good twenty years trying to destroy this said shit hole, but I never really stepped back and looked at just how awful it is. Now that I'm up here looking at it from a different perspective, I think we're actually the lucky ones." He took another drag from the cigarette and I furrowed my brows.
"Jonathan, we're in a hospital that doesn't even lock its windows. How are we the lucky ones here?" He shrugged.
"Better in here than in Arkham with the rest of the group."
True. I wasn't exactly in the mood for food that looked like it was a lab experiment at some point, or for being the brunt of everyone's rage for getting caught, again. At least in Jonathan's company I could safely expect neither. I looked away again, and after another few silent moments, gestured to the cigarette package resting between us.
"Could I have one? I really need to relax right now." Jonathan shot me a sharp look.
"Edward, you're dying enough as it is." I snorted at this and grabbed a cigarette.
"Hah, I might as well speed up the process. If you keep up this habit yourself, we could be roommates within the next year. Now light me." I rested the cigarette between my lips and leaned forward slightly. After a few tense seconds, Jonathan struck another match and lit the end until it was a brilliant orange. He then flicked the match out the window where it gracefully fell to join its companion on the concrete below. I inhaled deeply, enjoying the rich taste of apple that flooded my senses, before exhaling the smoke through my nose. Jonathan chuckled a bit, and I looked over.
He was focused on the people on the concrete below. I was focused on his appearance. If I were to describe him in one word, I'd probably choose unique. Not in the bad sense, mind you, but in the sense that he was the type of person you rarely see. He had very messy russet colored hair; it wasn't red, but it wasn't brown either. It was sloppily cut too since he cut it in a bathroom mirror himself. He also had dark bags under his eyes due to years of very little sleep, but they seemed to suit him in a way, like seeing him without the bags would just be a foreign concept. He had very bright eyes as well. A light blue that held a lot of intelligence within them, you know, the type of intelligence that both terrifies and intrigues you. He had sharp cheekbones that were, at the moment, flushed pink from the bitter air, and he had a curved nose that was also a reddish color. He also had interesting lips. I only found them interesting because I caught myself staring at them more than I should've been. Thin on the top lip, and slightly fuller on the bottom; sharp, but I was sure if I were to touch them with my own they'd be soft. So, while he was staring at the people below and memorizing their motions, I was memorizing his face. I was memorizing his brow furrow and how the cigarette was perched between his lips, and how he was now staring at me staring at him, which meant it was time to look away before I got called out. He gave me another slight smile, and I looked away.
The clouds were beginning to darken now, hinting towards an upcoming storm. I didn't recall any rain in the forecast; then again, I didn't recall anything that was on television anymore. All the pictures and the noises just seemed to blur together into one endless static-like hum. I took another drag of the cigarette, and Jonathan nudged my arm.
"Isn't it fitting?" He asked.
"Isn't what fitting?"
"That you're going to die in autumn." I shot him a glare, and lowered the cigarette from my mouth.
"Why is my death date fitting?" I asked. Jonathan's gave a lopsided smirk, but a melancholy look appeared in his eyes.
"All the beautiful things die in autumn." He flicked the butt of the cigarette off the ledge, and I watched it fall. If I had been on the ground I might've seen the shower of sparks it created. Instead, I just saw a fading light and a black speck. Soon, snow began to fall, and any light it may have given off was smothered away under a white blanket.
"Come on." Jonathan said as he stood and held out his hand. "It's getting cold, and the last thing you want to do is catch pneumonia, or some other disease." I hummed in agreement, and threw my cigarette off the ledge to join his somewhere in the speckled landscape below. I accepted his outstretched hand, not because I needed it, but because it was better to lean my weight on him instead of stumbling like some drunken buffoon. When I managed to get myself to my feet, Jonathan closed the window with a rough tug, and led me back to the bed.
I sat down heavily and pulled the thin white sheets over myself in one quick motion. He settled himself in the seat next to my bed, and then began rustling through his briefcase again. I settled back against the pillows and glanced over to my bedside table. The flower petals were all gone now except one, which dangled on the bulb by the very end, clinging to the last essence of life before it joined its companions on the table top. I grimaced and turned my attention back to Jonathan, who had now pulled out what could've passed as a copy of Gray's Anatomy.
"Freudian text? Is this my bedtime book, Jonathan?" I smirked. "I'm afraid I've already heard this story." Jonathan let out a brief laugh, before flipping open the book to a marked page.
"I recommend you get some rest, Edward. I'll try and stick around. That is, until your wonderful doctor's throw me out." He turned his attention back to the book. I studied him once more, and for a brief moment. In the grey light of the outdoors, he seemed more drawn and tired than before. I shifted slightly to my side so I was facing him, and closed my eyes.
The sound of pages turning soon lulled me to sleep.