I do not own Twilight.
Part two, but maybe…not the last of this mini-mini series?
"Jesus, Renée, you could have at least called her back," Charlie is saying as I'm running into the room the receptionist downstairs had pointed me towards.
Mike is trailing in after me, letting my fear and anxiety carry me ahead of him.
Charlie is sitting up in the hospital bed, shaking his head with is arms crossed. My mother is sitting on the chair beside him, her eyes wide, her normally perfectly sculpted hair a haggard mess.
"I'm fine, hon," Charlie says and I feel like I am going to collapse. Mike must notice because he grabs onto my arm and steadies me.
"What happened?" I cry out, another onset of tears beginning to flow. This time out of relief. Relief that my step-father is sitting and speaking to me, and not lying on the bed with tubes flowing from his mouth, or worse.
"It was just a scratch," Charlie says in that huffed tone he uses when any of his dote over him. He has always thought he was too tough, too manly to be taken care of.
"A scratch?!" my mother scoffs and moves to grab the white hospital blanket from his legs. He tries to stop her, but she's too fast and I look on in horror at the wad of ace bandages wrapped tightly around his lower thigh. I gasp and move to his bedside while he rolls his eyes.
"Just bein' dramatic," he grumbles under his breath, but I'm already looking around the room for signs of a blood transfer, or extreme painkillers, or maybe even the remains of a bullet lying in a souvenir tube somewhere.
"It hit an artery."
Charlie rolls his eyes at my mother and purses his lips.
"I'm fine," he grumbles.
"What happened?" Mike asks, moving to stand beside me now so he, too, can look down at Charlie's injured leg.
Charlie sighs heavily and grabs the blanket roughly, covering himself once more. "Idiot new kid on the squad didn't cover me like he was supposed to." He glances up at the two of us. "Car chase gone wrong," he explains.
I take a deep breath and run a shaking hand over my forehead.
"It's nothin'. Don't worry," he says.
I shake my head because I know arguing with him won't do any good. He wasn't killed—miraculously—and he still has functioning of both legs, by which he pointed out by kicking the blanket lower over his feet.
"How long will you be out for?" I ask instead, because I know it's all he cares about. "How long is the recovery?"
"Two weeks until I can move to crutches, and then who knows how long after that." He's brushing off the crutches as though they are a simple, unnecessary device.
But my mother isn't about to let him get away with his nonchalance. "The surgeon said if the bullet was just another centimeter to the left, he would not have recovered at all."
Charlie waves off the statement with a flick of his wrist.
"And if Brandon hadn't worked so quickly to put pressure on the wound, he would have bled out," my mother adds.
I freeze at the mention of his on-again-off-again partner.
"Yeah," Charlie says, his eyes lighting up. "Let's move this party to Brandon's room. He'll appreciate this more than I am."
"Was he shot, too?" I ask, balking at the mere thought.
Charlie shakes his head. "Cut his hand pretty deep, though, trying to jump a fence. He's just down the hall. Matter of fact, I'll have the nurse show you the way."
He practically snarls when we refuse and remain with him, doting in the ways he hates most, but I'm just thankful he is, seemingly, okay.
A couple of hours later, Mike asks me if I want to get something to eat. He's starving, I can already tell by the tone to his voice. He hasn't eaten since last night when we ordered pizza for dinner. Apparently, seven slices weren't enough to hold him over until the afternoon, even.
Reluctantly, I agree, and Charlie tries to get my mother to come along, but she refuses, hushing him when he tells her they probably have flavored coffees.
"We'll be back in a few minutes," I promise, but it seems Charlie takes it as more of a warning and then Mike is pulling me through the door and out in the brightly lit hall.
It seems like such a different atmosphere, now. Running in, the blinding lights were an omen of death. Now, they seem more tranquil; life giving rather than draining. I remember, with a shot back into reality, the last time I had thought something like this. It was, ironically, the last time I was in a hospital.
Mike leads me down the hall towards the elevator, beside which is a large blue board that outlines where the basics of the hospital are. Down a level is the cafeteria. I want to resist the elevator and pull him towards the stairs—who knows what catastrophes we will run into if they need to wheel a bed to another floor—but he's already pressing the button.
"Man," he says as the large silver doors begin to pan open, "I'm starving." But I'm no longer looking because there's a shorter girl moving to exit the elevator who stops short when she realizes there are people waiting to get on. Her large brown eyes fall first on Mike, and then on me, an apology on the tip of her tongue, the forefront of her open mouth, before the words halt altogether. Her eyes stare daggers into me and, as always, I am a tad bit intimidated despite her size.
"Excuse us," Mike says and moves to pull me around her, having no idea of her existence or relation to me. I step around her with him as she slowly moves out of the elevator, swiveling shortly on her heel to glare at me again.
I stare, eyes wide and, just before the doors begin to close she laughs once, a short, dark sound.
"Bitch," she mutters under her breath, though loud enough that she knows I will hear and I stand, gawking at the closing doors and her turning body just between them.
Mike's chin moves back quickly in shock, his brow furrowing over his eyes.
"Did she just…?" he starts, but I shake my head quickly, more tears dispelling.
I've been a fountain of waterworks lately and it's honestly beginning to get to me. I don't think I've ever cried this much in my life.
"Do you know that girl?" he asks, looking horrified, either for my behalf, or because the tears are flowing freely and seemingly for no reason.
I only bite my bottom lip and nod once.
"That," I say, my voice thick with emotion, "was Alice."