He's Back For Josh
Summary: Josh's uncle comes home to visit, and methodically tears apart his nephew's life.
Disclaimer: Drake and Josh mine? Stares dreamily off into the distance… I won't waste my time with utter nonsense, so here goes the story!
Chapter 4 – To Plan B
If one had happened to notice the car just around the corner, he would see an odd sort of man whose face had become oddly puce colored. Veins seemed to bulge out from his neck and pulse angrily. Any normal person would run away in fright—the man looked crazed; eyebrows arched over narrowed eyes, filled with tangible sparks of naked fury, and nostrils visibly puffed in and out as he breathe. Crazed. Absolutely.
He gripped the steering wheel, imagining himself clutching the boy, slowly encircling his large fingers around the boy's slender throat, tightening his hold until his fingers wrapped around each other…watching as the boy helplessly struggle, wheezing and—
A blaring noise deafened his ears, and lights flashed wildly, as though mocking him for his defeat.
That boy…
Josh was leaving his car, unscathed. He was battered, but he was supposed to die. Now he would have to inconveniently draw up another plan just because the wimp wouldn't die. But, he reasoned, the police might be suspicious if Josh was drawn into another fatal accident. That insufferable brat… He would just have to get close enough to the boy to finish his task. This complicates things just a bit, he thought. He had only a week's time. He cursed himself for waiting so long to put his former plan into action—but his fingers convulsed involuntarily in anticipation. He pressed on the accelerator and sped away from the equally insufferable flashing lights, his tires screeching across the road.
Josh hated hospitals. He hated the overlying antiseptic scent that filled his nostrils. He hated the pale tiled floors and the white walls and the grey waiting chairs and the white plaster ceilings and the white fluorescent lights and the white coats and the latex gloves that doctors and nurses always snapped on importantly. He hated feeling the coldness of the metal table seep into him, and hated waiting patiently as the doctors probed at him.
He hated the white cotton swabs that darted in and out of injuries with blue gel stuck to them. He hated the sting of alcohol. He hated the pinch of injections. He hated the thin, opaque hospital gowns that protected one's modesty, but retained little other purpose. He hated the horrid bustling and objectivity with which the nurses and doctors observed their patients, slamming down prescriptions after poking and prodding and asking sharp questions about injuries.
They took Josh in for an X-ray, which revealed no fractures, and checked his blood alcohol level. Josh rolled his eyes—him and alcohol? Those words together, in a single sentence? It was like saying that he failed a test. Impossible. But they insisted he take it—it was protocol. Josh groaned when he finally lay in his room, and checked the plain white clock that hung in his room. It was 8:00. Why did they insist he stay in the room and lie down if he adamantly declared he was alright? Josh boredly glanced around the plain room, his nose twitching at the faint scent of rubbing alcohol.
He heard the door to his room creak open, and his eyes widened when a police officer strode inside.
"Josh Nichols?" He asked crisply. Josh looked up. He hadn't been drunk. He never drank. What was going on? Josh fearfully raised his eyes to the officers' face, all the while trying not to hyperventilate. What did a police officer want to talk to him about? He finally nodded slowly as the officer raised his eyebrows at the teen.
"I need to talk to you about your accident." The officer said, pulling up a chair, and sitting down next to him. He drew up a notepad from his pocket and jotted down some notes. Josh held his breath.
"Sir," Josh began nervously. He didn't know what it was about police officers, whether it was their crisp blue outfits or their hard looks or their guns (well, it was definitely the guns), but he was completely intimidated. "My car?" He tried to stall whatever the officer was going to say.
The officer looked up, tapping the pen on his pad. "It was towed. Here's the company's card." He said, handing it from his back pocket to Josh. Josh stared at the black and red print before looking back up to see that the officer was still sitting by his bed, reading his notes. "It seems that there was oil in the brake fluid compartment." He settled his gaze down at Josh, who squirmed uncomfortably.
"What does that mean?" Josh squinted.
"It means that you're lucky to be alive. Oil reacts with the fluid and destroys the rubber seals in the brake system. Meaning brake failure. Now, I need to have a list of some of your unsavory acquaintances…"
Josh didn't really have enemies, just people who were sometimes annoyed by him. They came up with nothing, and the police officer concluded that this was just a case of putting the wrong fluid in the wrong compartment. Finally, the police officer left Josh alone with his thoughts. Did someone really want to kill me? He pondered. But he immediately dismissed the idea as absurd. But then what really did happen?
Afterwards, Josh wrote a thank you note to the doctors, and gave them his address. They had changed him into hospital clothes, but he found his clothes beside his bed. He quickly changed into them and crept out of the room. He did not want to deal with doctors or spend the night at the hospital or even let his parents know he was at the hospital.
I am going to be in so much trouble if they find out. Right now, all he wanted was to go home, and soak in the bathtub, and then go to sleep in his own comfy bed. He hailed a taxi to his house once he was finally outside, and noted that it was already 9: 30. His parents would surely kill him now, especially when they found out his car was at the tow-shop.
He tried to think of some excuse, but could only come up with the idea that he felt it was time for the routine maintenance check. But that wouldn't make sense, he thought as he handed the taxi driver the last of the money in his wallet. He quickly peered in the mirror to see if his gash was covered—it was. It wouldn't make sense because he left everything in his car, including his cell phone.
No, he'd just tell them that he'd discovered his brakes weren't working, and had his car towed. He would pay for the damages to the car—they didn't need to know. He really did not want to tell them about the hospital—he was exhausted, and he knew they would worry excessively. He just wanted to act as if everything was normal, just for a while.
After about a quarter of an hour, they reached his house. He held his arm close to his body, patted down his bangs once again. Here we go, he thought, preparing himself for grounding. He rang the doorbell with his right hand, cursing himself for having forgotten the keys. The door creaked open, and light flooded the front entrance.
"Josh, where have you been?"