Dear Journal,
Recovery Day 3
The hospital hasn't allowed me to see him yet. I don't know what's driving me more insane. The fact that all I can do is stay in the bland room, or the fact that I don't know how he's doing. I have confirmed that we are together, and that on its own set me up for horrible treatment, apparently. I've been struggling a lot.. you know, coping with the fact that I caused this all. I just.. I just couldn't wait.
Dear Journal,
Recovery Day 5
They brought in a specialist for me, he started teaching me.. something called sign language? I believe that's what it's called. I was told just previously that I will not ever truly recover from the accident. The glass cut too deep, and did far too much damage. There's simply nothing we can do. The doctor said he was actually rather surprised that I survived, for I had far more damage than Pitch did. I miss him.. I miss him so much. He has to be so worried about me. I do hope they've told him I'm okay, or at least delivered the messages I wrote him. Or the pictures.. I've been working on my art skills, since I've been using those to communicate to the doctors. They've understood so far. I don't really understand what I need sign language for anyways…He sighed softly to himself, a frustrated tone just barely laced around his expression. It was certianly a difficult thing to deal with, the loss of his voice. Many tears had been shed when he was told of his loss. Though, he'd been so drugged up on medication, he was barely able to express himself. Today was the start of recovery, as they had told him. He had spent hours trying to memorize the alphabet, just the simple alphabet. He couldn't.. he couldn't get it right though. He had tried and tried. He wasn't made to do something like this. He had always had issues expressing himself in a correct way verbally. Now he had to try to do it with.. hand motions? Why couldn't he just draw? Why did this have to happen to him? Tears started to well up in his golden orbs as he rolled over on his side, pulling the white sheet over his battered and bruised body. His mind wandered off to Pitch's well being. He imagined them together once again, smiling, cuddling. Those thoughts quickly lulled him to slip, a small smile gracing his soft, pink tinted lips.
Pitch had awoken in an awful state. In was dark, the room was dark, outside, it was dark. He wasn't sure if he was still dreaming, or actually awake. Panic had taken over once he realized he was alone. Thoughts of his dear lover flooded in, was he okay? Was he even alive? No, no of course he was alive.. he hadn't… he hadn't killed him. A panic beyond expression took over his being as his golden grey orbs flickered down to everything attached to him. With a few swift movements, he had yanked it all out, and headed out of his room. He had stumbled down the hallways, and had barely made it to the front desk before sliding down and passing out in a pile on the floor. This, was Pitch's first experience with the hospital staff. From then on, they knew to watch over him.
It wasn't until the next day that Pitch woke up once again. Though, this time he was greeted by a stack of papers on an end table near his bed, and an unfamiliar face. "Pitch, good to see you awake." The voice chimed out, shattering the silence. "Where's Sandy? Sanderson?" He questioned before the others words could fully leave their mouth. "He's doing just fine.." The figure trailed off, giving him a rather odd look. "Where is he!?" Pitch nearly growled. The other had not answered his question, they had only given him a petty answer. "He's in his room. He's been asking to see you. We were unable to allow him to visit, due to his condition, so he left those for you." The figure then pointed to the stacks of drawings and letters. "Those are all for you. Though you're the one in better condition, he woke up before you did. Honestly, we were rather concerned you weren't going to wake up at all." The color nearly seemed to drain from Pitch's pale face as he listened to the other speak. Were they implying he almost…killed…. No. No he had not. Sandy was alive, he was alive. That was all that mattered. He stared at the pile of drawing for a rather long moment, a small smile creeping along his lips. Though it faded quickly as he realized the other was still in the room. "Get out." He ordered, staring the other down as they shot him a rather offended expression. His orbs narrowed as the other got up, and simply walked out. "Good." He muttered to himself, his orbs flickering back to the stack of papers. That oh so rare smile graced his lips once again as he picked them up, and set them in his lap.