Hiya, here's the next chapter. It will be in Chris's point of view. I REPEAT ALL YOU PEOPLE WHO NEVER READ MY A/NS: THIS CHAPTER AND MAYBE THE NEXT FEW WILL BE IN CHRIS'S POINT OF VIEW!!!!!
P.S. It will also be told in present tense. (You know, he reads instead of he read.)
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Wyatt looks scared, and that scares me. Never in my entire life have I seen my older brother react this way. Especially to words coming from my mouth. It's much to strange, and I lead a very strange life.
Wyatt's mouth moves up and down, grasping for words that won't come to him. He doesn't know how to respond. This almost makes me laugh, he is speechless, another area he's never entered before. However, the side of my brain that had lain dormant for the hour or so leading up to my attempt was wide awake now. If Wyatt was scared, then I must have scared him. And if I scared him, I probably killed Mom and Dad...
Dad....
The smart side of my brain informs me that I must have imagined the so-called argument Leo and I had. He would have never said those things to me, right? Sure, he favors Wyatt, and okay he's never really been around, but I can't imagine him hating me. Loathing me to such an extent that he wished me dead, or never conceived. I've lost count of the number of letters signed Love, Dad. So it couldn't have been him. Right?
I stop staring at Wyatt, maybe he'll turn back to normal. You know, call me a retard and go on with his life. Hmmm.... what to stare at? Ah-ha! My newly probably scarred for life arms! I shall stare at them!
I decided that the blood loss did a number on my ability to think.
They're a sorta interesting thing to look at, my stitches. I've never had them before, considering my father has never lost his ability to heal (at least, not since I've been alive). They look quite strange, and I had to peel back some gauze to look at them. Unfortunately, Wyatt must think that I'm trying to undo them. He replaces the gauze and my stitches are covered in a blanket of blood soaked white cloth.
So, unable to distract myself from my brother who either believes that I'm crazy or clinically depressed, I open my mouth to make healthy, normal, strained, forced, boring, un-natural, mundane, brotherly conversation. However, I swallow my words when Wyatt starts to speak.
"Why didn't you tell any one that you were feeling this way?" My not-as-stupid-as-he-looks-most-of-the-time brother asks me. I think he sounds like my shrink. "I know, I probably sound like your shrink, but ya scared the living shit out of us Chris. Marlee's already looking for a therapist!"
Marlee? How does she know about this? Oh, that's right. Christopher Perry Halliwell, you are a complete moron. Marlee lives with you! But still, why does she need therapy? I'm the one who's been considering suicide since I was seven! That's why I need a shrink! Mom caught me burning a suicide note I'd written in the sixth grade when my loving father forgot my birthday, again.
I stop my inner rant. Something's different. Wyatt is... crying? No, now I know I'm putting him into therapy. Wyatt doesn't cry. Period. No crying for the Wyatt. So, then why is he? I look up at him.
And realize that I'm crying too.
Mom and Dad enter stage right. Dad drags Wyatt off, muttering something about food. Mom stands at the foot of the bed for about four more minutes, before she takes a seat in a stiff hospital room chair. Her eyes are red. She's been crying. Am I still crying? I don't really know.
"Chris, honey," Mom starts. She wants to talk to me, but I guess she finds it hard making conversation with a crazy person. Because, I am crazy, right?
My face feels more damp than it did a minute ago, I must have stopped crying then. I guess I've started again. Mom comes out of the thick fog surrounding the creaky old hospital bed to give me a much needed hug. I want to hug her back, but, for the first time, my arms hurt too much to move them. She keeps telling me that she loves me.
My vocal chords remember that they are supposed to talk when I tell them to, and inform my mother that I love her too. She hugs me tighter and starts apologizing for things that I never blamed her for. It's not her fault that Dad's never been there. She doesn't control him. It's not her fault that Wyatt has always gotten more attention from Dad. It's not her fault that I'm a whack job. That one is all my fault. I think... is it? Or did my psycho family make me this way? I can't be sure. I tell Mom that it's not her fault. She holds me out at an arms length and tells me that she loves me with a teary smile.
Her shoulder is wet, I was crying again. I open my mouth to apologize, but my words wither and die in my throat. Mommy is trying to be the strong Mommy I've always had. But she's trying way too hard. Her smile is so fake that the imposter Santa Clauses at Wal-Mart looked better. But worse, she knows it.
An older lady in a traditional nurses clothes interrupts Mom and mine talkative silence. She's come to change my bandages. Mom excuses herself, mumbling something about being unable to handle blood right now. I can hear her vomit from down the hall.
Maybe she's become bulimic. I'll have to bring her to my shrink, he'll give her some happy pills and she'll be all better again. Perhaps he should have given me some happy pills.
Nurse Smiley, gives me a bright and shiny smile that could repair a smashed mirror. I'd smile back if hers wasn't so blinding. I cover my eyes to that don't shrivel up and fall out of their sockets. She pokes and prods at my arms, and frowns disapprovingly at the umteen stitches marching in uniform up and down my forearms and wrists. Left, left, left, right, left. Go into battle blindly to defend me from the wrath of too much lost blood.
She wraps my arms in some new gauze and replaces her frown with that mind boggling smile. "You gave us quite a scare..." she pauses, picks up the clipboard on the end on my bed, and says, "Christopher." My voice has found a way to function just long enough to inform her that my name is not, under any circumstances, Christopher. Smiley keeps on smiling.
"Well then, Chris," Smiley says as she gets up to leave, "I hope that you'll feel better." I don't think she likes my name. She said it like it was weird or smelled like an old gym sock. Oh well, I guess she could call me Christopher, but only in private.
I need to sleep, so that's what I'm going to do. So what if its only five o'clock?
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That's it, what did you think?
