Irrationally, I thought the hospital would be deserted and I would be treated quickly. It is the middle of the night—people don't get hurt in the middle of the night, right? Well, maybe in England they don't, but I live in LA now. When I drive up to the hospital entrance I see two police cars, lights on, and an ambulance parked at the curb. I find an empty parking space, and walk around the emergency vehicles to go inside.
If you are being treated in the ER at three in the morning, you usually fall into a specific category. There are the gangbangers, who got into a fight couldn't just walk away. There are the druggies, who ODed on something a little too potent. There are the car accident victims, who crashed a little too hard. And finally, there are the screaming kids and their mothers who can't wait until morning to go to Urgent Care. I am without a group to associate with, unless I want to make a new one—those who sacrifice their body for the sake of a friend.
There are two policemen (sorry, one is actually a policewoman,) standing at the counter talking to the nurse. I hang back and wait my turn; they're talking in low voices so I don't know what they're saying. They finish after a few moments. The woman glances at me suspiciously before they both step aside. I give her a weak smile.
"What can I do for you honey?" The lady in scrubs behind the desk asks me when I step up.
"Uh, I burned myself." I say, starting to roll back my sleeve to prove that I am indeed injured. It's kind of hurting. "Cooking." I add, because it sounds weird to say I burned myself at three a.m. without a good excuse.
It looks like she could care less—she's probably seen it all. "Okay hon, I'm going to need you to fill out this form." She sets a clipboard on the counter. "Have you been to this hospital before?"
"No." I say, taking the clipboard and a pen.
"Do you have your insurance card with you?" She continues.
"I don't have insurance." I reply sheepishly.
She gives me a skeptical look. "You'll have to pay the basic fee upfront."
"I can cover that." I add hastily.
Her look clearly says, 'I doubt that,' but she doesn't say anything. "Bring that up once you're done." She gestures to the clipboard I'm clutching. "And we'll get to you as soon as we can."
I look over my shoulder at the crowded waiting room. There are probably over a dozen people sitting around—some groaning or bleeding—all waiting to be treated. I look back at the woman behind the counter. "Listen," I say, hoping my smile looks charming. My stomach is churning thinking about Mello alone in the apartment. "I've actually got a baby at home. I called my neighbor to come take care of him, but she has be at work soon—"
"Sir," She interrupts me. It's weird to think that I qualify as a 'Sir.' "I said," She enunciates—annoying bitch. "We'll get to you as soon as we can."
Deflated, I go take a seat in the corner. Mello would kill me if he found out I'd just told someone that he was a baby. (I am not planning on telling him about any of this.) There's a woman sitting on one side of me, a crying baby in her arms. She looks exhausted, and is bouncing the child mindlessly. It just keeps screaming. I lean as far away from her and the demon child as I can manage, and focus on the form in front of me.
'Name' I pause on this question, then pull out my wallet to see which fake ID I have with me today. I scribble Jason Cartwright down, copying the rest of the information that's written there. The address will lead them to a vacant lot down on the Southside, and the phone number has been disconnected.
Paranoid, I glance up at the two cops who are hanging out by the counter. The man says something to the woman, and leaves out the automatic doors a moment later. She continues to stand there, scanning the room. A shiver runs down my spine, and I bury myself in the questionnaire again. The baby beside me just spit up, I think; luckily it didn't get on me. The woman is getting up, I guess to go to the bathroom. Thank God.
'Do you have any medical allergies?' I'm allergic to stupidity and long waits. I write 'no.'
'Are you sexually active?' I think this is a weird question—is it asking if I am active during sex? I am, occationally, if Mello lets me be. (What does this have to do with an arm injury, anyways?) I write 'sometimes,' because that sounds better than yes or no.
'Do you smoke?' Ugh, they just reminded me. I'm suddenly itching for a cigarette. I wonder if they'd notice if I discreetly lit up. I could breathe the smoke on this plant here beside me—maybe it would suck up the smell. (Don't plants take carbon dioxide out of the air? Smoke can't be that much different chemically.) I write, 'I wish.'
'Are you currently taking any medication?' I want to write 'speed,' because it would be funny, but I'd rather not give that lady cop a reason to cuff me. Ever the truthful one, I write 'no.'
A girl sits down in the seat beside me. I glance up at her, only because I can feel her staring at me—she looks to be about seventeen, and her pupils are the size of the hubcaps on my Camaro. Her reaction is delayed, but after she notices me looking at her she giggles.
"Hi," Is her greeting, and she drags out the word on a breath. I've never met someone who can make a single word sound like an innuendo. That takes some skill. (I bet Mello could do it if he tried—oh God, Mello.)
"I'm gay." I blurt out, a little too loudly, because a few people turn to look at me. My cheeks tinge with color.
The girl giggles again. It's kind of obnoxious sounding. "I like to experiment." Okay—what?
"Uh…" I have no idea how to respond to that. I am, however, tempted to ask her for some of whatever she's on. Reality is a little too sharp at the moment.
Luckily I was saved the awkwardness, because a man comes over and grabs her by the arm, pulling her out of the chair. He sends me a glare. "Stay away from my girl." He growls, and the high bimbo giggles, giving me a little wave as she is dragged off to the other side of the room.
Who the hell would want to be around her anyways? I feel harassed. Psychos seem to come to the hospital at night—is it a full moon or something? I try to focus on the paperwork. I'm actually relieved when the mother and her screaming demon child come to sit beside me again.
After I turn in my clipboard I'm left to sit and wait like the rest of the sick and injured. I keep looking at my cell phone—I'd forgotten to put on my watch—and read the time every few seconds. It's hard to not think about Mello. I'm trying to not think about how long it's been since I left him—one hour, thirty seven minutes and forty eight seconds—or what he could be doing right now—dying, ODing, wondering where I am—but it's impossible. Fifty four seconds.
It takes forever to be seen. A 'minor burn' patient (it still hurts, okay?!) apparently isn't top priority. I keep going to the desk and asking the nurse how much longer it should be. She's getting annoyed with me, so I stop asking, or else she might sabotage me and I'll never get out of here.
When I am finally called back, it is such a quick visit that I could have screamed. The doctor—or I think it he is a doctor, anyways—looks at my arm, cleans it, put some cool cream on it, and bandages it. He recommends that I take over-the-counter drugs for pain and put a cold compress on it, on and off every twenty minutes. I complain that it is really painful, and finally get him to prescribe me some Vicodin. He writes me the prescription, and another for burn cream, and I snatch them out of his hand. He gives me a funny look, and I try to smile, hoping I don't look as anxious as I feel. I would have run out, but I had to pay at the counter. It was ridiculously expensive for having been with the doctor for less than ten minutes.
That high girl with the alien pupils is still in the waiting room, and she gives me a wink as I pass. I barrel out of there before her possessive boyfriend can hit me. I drive out of the parking lot, waiting until I'm clear of the police cars before flooring it. I go to the nearest 24-hour drug store. It's almost morning by now; the smoggy sky is just beginning to streak with grey.
I go to the pharmacy section first, giving all of the information for 'Jason Cartwright.' While they're filling the prescriptions, I go to the aisle stocked with medicine and supplies. I clean out all the bandages they have, plus more over-the-counter drugs, disinfectants, and cold packs. I check, but the pharmacy isn't finished with the burn cream and Vicodin yet, so I do some grocery shopping as well. I grab all the chocolate I can find, but I know Mello's going to need sustenance too, so I get some milk, eggs, cheese and bread. I'm not sure what I'm going to do with all of it, but it sounds like a good idea to at least have it.
I pick up the prescribed drugs and pay the gum-chewing girl at the counter who'd been reading magazines off the rack. I'm starting to feel like everyone in this city is oblivious and incompetent. Can't she see that I'm in a hurry?! But she took her sweet time scanning each item while I waited on, trying not to give into the urge to strangle her.
I thank the heavens that my Camaro is fast, and I'm able to weave in and out of traffic along the interstate to get home faster. At least, until I see the red and blue lights flashing in my rearview mirror. I curse under my breath. I'm seriously considering trying to just lose them on the side streets, but that could backfire and I might lead them right to my apartment—and in turn, Mello.
I pull over to the side of the road, hands flexing over the steering wheel. I reluctantly roll down my window—the cop comes over to my car, standing just to the side of the window so I have to look back to see him. It is dark, and hard to make out his features.
"License and registration?" He asks me blandly.
"Just give me the ticket! I know I was going too fast!" I blurt out.
The police officer frowns a little. "Sir, I need to see your license and registration."
I fumble for the fake driver's license—Jason Cartwright sure is getting a workout tonight. I hand him the information out of my glove box and watch in my mirror as he goes back to his car to make a call. All the information will check out. County files are so easy to hack.
"Do you know why I pulled you over?" He asks once he returns, handing me back my forged papers.
I'm frustrated—Mello could be dead, and this idiot won't just give me a damn ticket! "I was going too fast." I try to sound civil, but I know my voice is strained.
"The limit is sixty-five back there, and I clocked you going ninety."
I bite my tongue to resist a smart-ass remark. "Sorry, officer." I force myself to say.
"I'm going to have to write you up." Finally!
I doubt the cop has ever seen someone so anxious to get their ticket. I snatch it from his hand, much as I had the prescription from the doctor an hour before. "Thanks," I add blandly.
"Watch your speed out there." He reminds me, and I'm finally allowed to drive off. I force myself to go the limit, at least for a few blocks.
When I reach my building I throw the car into park before I come to a full stop, causing the Camaro to jerk violently in protest. I gather up my bags of supplies and sprint up the stairs to the second floor. It's hard to get my keys to fit into the lock—my hands are shaking. Finally, I burst into the apartment. My heart stops.
The living room is empty. Two full glasses of water sit on the coffee table, and multiple towels are thrown haphazardly onto the floor. It's been almost three hours. My heart starts to beat again, but it's pounding now. I can barely breathe. "Mello?" I call into the silence.
I drop the bags—so much for the eggs—and check to make sure that he hadn't fallen over onto the other side of the couch. No one's here. "Mello!" I yell, and run down the hall to check my bedroom, but it's empty as well. I reach the bathroom, my hand closing around the knob, but it won't open. It's locked. "Mello!" I yell, banging on the wood. "Open the door!"
There's no answer. I force my heart to stop beating so loudly so I can listen; I can hear his labored breathing on the other side. "Mello…Mel, come on. Open the door. Are you conscious? I have medicine for you. I have chocolate." I plead weakly, fearing the worst.
I don't hear any movement inside, just the breathing. "No." His voice is weak, but cold as ice, causing the blood to curdle in my veins.
"I had to go, I'm sorry." I think he must be upset because I left him alone. "But I'm back now. We can get you all bandaged, you can take some pain pills and eat some chocolate…we could sleep, come on, it'll be like nothing's changed."
"Everything has changed!" I'm startled by the force in his voice, but it dies quickly. "Just leave me alone." I hear him groan on the other side of the door.
I rest my forehead against the wood—the cold is oddly comforting. "Mel...you have to let me in." I try to sound firm.
It's silent for a long moment, but then I hear him move inside the bathroom. My heart skips a beat, and I think that he's going to open the door—then I hear him retching. "Mello," I try the doorknob again, as if it might have magically unlocked in the last minute. "Are you okay?"
"No," He says, when he's stopped vomiting. His voice sounds strained. "I can smell it…" I hear the toilet flush. "It's making me sick."
"I'll clean it up, just let me in. I'll take care of you first, and then I'll clean the bathroom." I try to keep my voice from shaking. "You can sleep in the bed Mel, you'll feel better."
"No!" It almost sounds like he's crying. My heart breaks with the sound. "I can smell my face burning off! Get the hell away from me; I'm not letting you in!"
I didn't know that being worried about someone could physically hurt. I know he's serious, so I run into my bedroom and grab my pocketknife out of the bedside table drawer. It takes me a minute, but I'm able to pick the lock on the bathroom door. It's more difficult because my hands are so unsteady. I know Mello can hear me doing it, but he doesn't say anything.
I push open the door, and my stomach twists at the sight that meets me. Mello is curled up on the floor, his burned side pressing into the cool tile. The bathroom smells like vomit—I can see he's thrown up a few times, and couldn't quite make it to the toilet bowl. His eyes are pinched closed, and he doesn't acknowledge my presence.
"Mel…" I breathe, my voice catching on the single word.
"Don't—don't look at me." He mutters.
I swallow with some effort. "I won't, promise." I whisper, kneeling beside him. Carefully, I place a hand on his good shoulder. I help pull him up slowly, and he leans into my chest, resting his head against my shoulder. We're both silent we embrace one another.
He doesn't cry. I don't try to tell him that it's okay, if he needs to. I think he is hurt beyond the cure of tears. This goes deeper than burnt skin. We are kids again, back at Wammy's. He is a failure again. We just hold one another for a long while.
Finally, he mumbles, "I'm sorry I didn't let you in."
"It's okay."
"I didn't mean to shut you out." I know he's not talking about the door.
"You didn't; I'm here now."
"I don't know what I'd do without you."
"You're never going to be without me—don't think about that."
"I screwed up, bad."
"We'll fix it."
"Matt," Mello turns his face into my shoulder. I can feel his exhale, it shakes his entire frame. "Stop being so nice; it's not going to be okay."
"We'll make it through Mel. We always do, together."
"I don't know how to win anymore."
"Maybe it's not about winning."
He pulls back slightly at that, looking up at me. "But I have to win." He says, that manic look back in his eyes.
I swallow, focusing on his gaze instead of his burns. "No, you don't. And we already won Mel—we beat Near."
"What?" He looks confused. "I lost the notebook…I lost…everything."
I smile, weakly. "Not everything."
He just stares at me for a moment. Silent understanding passes between us. He reaches up to gently touch my cheek, his fingers skimming over the stubble that has appeared there over the night. "I did win, didn't I?" He actually looks peaceful, tired. "I got you."
AN: This chapter is pretty long compared to what I've been posting lately. I felt like I owed you guys a quick update after the amazing responce from the last chapter, and this one just wrote itself. I tried to weave a bit of humor into Matt's visit to the ER. =3 I hope that lightened the mood a little before I got all heavy on you guys again. I kept thinking, 'I should say more about how is arm is hurting!' but Matt wouldn't let me. He wasn't even thinking about his arm. He astounds me. Was Mello okay? I had some iffy moments with him, and rewrote the end about sixteen times. I'm pleased with the result though!
All those reviews inspired me to write this chapter. Keep me inspired? I also added a poll to my profile with questions about what you guys would like to see me write once Tinted Gold is finished. (Noooo! I will never let it end! D=) But anyways. We have a ways to go though, don't worry! I just want to start thinking about it, at least. Please vote, it would mean a lot to me!
This was written listening to 'The Great Escape' by Boys Like Girls. Also, I just have to throw this out there, fanfiction keeps smushing words together!! (During my editing on here, the space between some words, but not all, magically disappears.) What the heck is their problem? Stop smushing words, damn it! They have feelings too! Okay, done. =D Review.