Chapter Ten: Moving
I open my eyes. Where the hell am I? I stare at a white ceiling, and then turn my head. I've got an awful headache. I'm in a hospital, why am I in a hospital? I'm in a room all by myself. There's a card on the board above my head, but I can't move my head from the pain, so I can't see who it's from. A while later it's still plaguing me. Who would send me a card? Who acknowledges I exist anymore? Clementine. Then it all comes flooding back. Shooter. Clementine. I feel the tears behind my eyes now, and it takes all my strength to stop them cascading down my face as I lay in the hospital bed. I really should find out what happened to me, I don't remember anything. Who found me? Who would have come all the way up to my house and cared enough to call 911? Was I even in the house? I look to my side, there's the red call button. I groggily pull an arm above the bed sheets and press the button, then close my eyes. It's a hospital, it'll take a while, maybe someone will have time to come and see me in an hour or two.
The door to the room opens. I don't open my eyes.
"Why am I here?" I ask, turning my head to face the door, eyes still closed.
"You took a drug overdose, Mort," someone says. I recognize that voice at once and my eyes shoot open, and my breath catches in my throat. It's Clementine. She's dressed in a faded pair of jeans with a two-toned pink woolly jumper on, carrying a cup of coffee. I can't hold the tears any longer, although now they are for a different reason, and I let them fall freely down my cheeks.
"Clementine," I manage to whisper. She takes my hand, putting the styrofoam cup down on the table.
"You scared me, Mort."
"I scared you? Clementine, I thought Shooter killed you."
"I thought Shooter killed you. Oh, Mort." She cries too, and buries her head in the blankets on the bed, not letting go of my hand. We simply sit for a while, just in eachothers company. I can't explain the happiness I feel, it's impossible.
"Are you alright? Shooter didn't, do any long term damage?" I ask.
"No, I'm fine. You, however, may be a different matter. We're still waiting for some test results. The doctors think the overdose may have harmed part of your brain, I can't pronounce what that parts called, but they said with other overdoses, they can kill off part of the brain, normally a part that's not used, so you should be alright."
"Clementine, come closer," I say. She does so, leaning towards me. "Closer." I suddenly jerk up and kiss her, putting my other hand behind her head. She kisses back, hungrily.
"I never thought I'd be able to that again," she says when we break apart. "I should be so mad at you, Mort. There was a while back there when thought that you'd never wake up."
"I'm alright. We're both alright."
"Did you see my card?" she asks, taking the card down from the board and giving it to me. "I didn't stay all night, I wanted to, but I was so tired. So I picked it up on the way here this morning." I read the inside of the card.
"Thank you, Clementine," I say, handing it back. "I don't suppose I'll get any others." A doctor comes into the room and we both look towards him, he's carrying a clipboard. Maybe he has news.
"Mr. Rainey," he says.
"That would be me," I reply. Dumbass, of course I'm Mr. Rainey, I'm in his bed aren't I?
"The test results are back. I can tell you that no long term damage has been done that will affect you." Clementine turns from the doctor to smile at me, and I return it. "But, the overdose has affected part of the brain. It's a part not many people use, I won't confuse you with the scientific details, but it's the part more commonly used by children who have an imaginary friend. I see here in your notes that you've been diagnosed with a form of schizophrenia, it might affect that."
"How would it affect that? Would it get rid of it? Or would it make the schizophrenia worse?" Clementine asks, a scared tone in her voice.
"Well, the overdose has killed that tiny section of the brain, so it would, we think, stop it." Clementine's sobbing again.
"Thank you so much, doctor," she says. He continues to check things with my notes, and do doctor-y things.
"You hear that Mort? Shooter's gone," says Clementine, delight showing through her voice. The doctor looks up.
"Gone?" he says in a southern Mississippi accent that's not his own. Both Clementine and I look up. "I haven't gone, Mr. Rainey. I've jus' found somewhere else to live."
I open my eyes. Where the hell am I? I stare at a white ceiling, and then turn my head. I've got an awful headache. I'm in a hospital, why am I in a hospital? I'm in a room all by myself. There's a card on the board above my head, but I can't move my head from the pain, so I can't see who it's from. A while later it's still plaguing me. Who would send me a card? Who acknowledges I exist anymore? Clementine. Then it all comes flooding back. Shooter. Clementine. I feel the tears behind my eyes now, and it takes all my strength to stop them cascading down my face as I lay in the hospital bed. I really should find out what happened to me, I don't remember anything. Who found me? Who would have come all the way up to my house and cared enough to call 911? Was I even in the house? I look to my side, there's the red call button. I groggily pull an arm above the bed sheets and press the button, then close my eyes. It's a hospital, it'll take a while, maybe someone will have time to come and see me in an hour or two.
The door to the room opens. I don't open my eyes.
"Why am I here?" I ask, turning my head to face the door, eyes still closed.
"You took a drug overdose, Mort," someone says. I recognize that voice at once and my eyes shoot open, and my breath catches in my throat. It's Clementine. She's dressed in a faded pair of jeans with a two-toned pink woolly jumper on, carrying a cup of coffee. I can't hold the tears any longer, although now they are for a different reason, and I let them fall freely down my cheeks.
"Clementine," I manage to whisper. She takes my hand, putting the styrofoam cup down on the table.
"You scared me, Mort."
"I scared you? Clementine, I thought Shooter killed you."
"I thought Shooter killed you. Oh, Mort." She cries too, and buries her head in the blankets on the bed, not letting go of my hand. We simply sit for a while, just in eachothers company. I can't explain the happiness I feel, it's impossible.
"Are you alright? Shooter didn't, do any long term damage?" I ask.
"No, I'm fine. You, however, may be a different matter. We're still waiting for some test results. The doctors think the overdose may have harmed part of your brain, I can't pronounce what that parts called, but they said with other overdoses, they can kill off part of the brain, normally a part that's not used, so you should be alright."
"Clementine, come closer," I say. She does so, leaning towards me. "Closer." I suddenly jerk up and kiss her, putting my other hand behind her head. She kisses back, hungrily.
"I never thought I'd be able to that again," she says when we break apart. "I should be so mad at you, Mort. There was a while back there when thought that you'd never wake up."
"I'm alright. We're both alright."
"Did you see my card?" she asks, taking the card down from the board and giving it to me. "I didn't stay all night, I wanted to, but I was so tired. So I picked it up on the way here this morning." I read the inside of the card.
"Thank you, Clementine," I say, handing it back. "I don't suppose I'll get any others." A doctor comes into the room and we both look towards him, he's carrying a clipboard. Maybe he has news.
"Mr. Rainey," he says.
"That would be me," I reply. Dumbass, of course I'm Mr. Rainey, I'm in his bed aren't I?
"The test results are back. I can tell you that no long term damage has been done that will affect you." Clementine turns from the doctor to smile at me, and I return it. "But, the overdose has affected part of the brain. It's a part not many people use, I won't confuse you with the scientific details, but it's the part more commonly used by children who have an imaginary friend. I see here in your notes that you've been diagnosed with a form of schizophrenia, it might affect that."
"How would it affect that? Would it get rid of it? Or would it make the schizophrenia worse?" Clementine asks, a scared tone in her voice.
"Well, the overdose has killed that tiny section of the brain, so it would, we think, stop it." Clementine's sobbing again.
"Thank you so much, doctor," she says. He continues to check things with my notes, and do doctor-y things.
"You hear that Mort? Shooter's gone," says Clementine, delight showing through her voice. The doctor looks up.
"Gone?" he says in a southern Mississippi accent that's not his own. Both Clementine and I look up. "I haven't gone, Mr. Rainey. I've jus' found somewhere else to live."