Previously on 'Almost Over'…
He mutters at me some more, again I am unable to hear what he has to say.
His eyes are glowing crystal blue as the world around me fades to grey. His voice becomes stretchy and frightened. I can feel him shaking me again.
The grey turns darker and darker…
He's crying again, I can hear it now…
The darker it gets, the louder he seems to be yelling…
Blackness follows suit…
"SAM! DON'T LEAVE ME…"
…But Not Quite
It's been three hours.
Three agonising hours of waiting to hear something, anything, about Sam's condition.
This bland and sterile waiting room is where I have been for that time. A mother and her toddler sit a few chairs down from me. The small child has a saucepan lodged on his head and sobs madly while his mother cuddles him, trying to keep him calm until a doctor comes by.
A teenage girl, a few years older than me and clutching the right side of her face, sits impatiently waiting for the nurse to come back. A trickle of blood escapes through the gap between her pinkie and her ring finger. She sees me looking at her injury and tries to smile.
"Hi, I'm Kaira." She says, holding out a blood stained hand. I glance at the blooded digits and then at her.
"Um, my name's Danny." I don't want to appear rude by leaving her hanging, but the ruby juices on her palm frighten me a bit.
She eyes me up strangely, but soon catches on to why I'm not shaking her hand.
"Oh, knickers! Sorry, love." her raspy English voice apologises and her hand returns to guarding her damaged face. "What you in for?"
"Huh? Oh, my friend was brought in a few hours ago." My eyes start to tear up as I am reminded of the gory state I found her in. "What about you?"
"I got in a cat-fight with some slapper at a pub,"
Her obviously British accent threw me off slightly.
"You mean a bar, right?"
"Yeah, that's it; I forgot you Yanks have different slang than us Brits." She winced. "Either way I got slashed in the eye with a busted pint glass."
"And they haven't seen you yet?"
It was shocking that she hadn't already been seen to. She's been stabbed in the eye for crying out loud. Anyone with that kind of lesion would normally be examined first as a 'High-Priority'. Oddly enough, she doesn't appear to be in much pain, considering the extent of her wound.
"Ah, it's nothing; ever been to an Essex hospital?"
I shook my head.
"I were in a car crash ages ago and broke my ankle. I got to Broomfield General at about half eight and didn't get medical attention 'til three in the morning!"
Clearly she has been drinking. The pupil in her left eye, which is the only one I can see, has dilated, yet shows an expression of honest concern.
"So what happened to this mate of yours?"
Mate? Sam and I would never… Oh wait, she's using slang again. I assume that 'mate' translates to 'friend', although I can feel my cheeks burning slightly.
"I stopped by her house and she…"
The girl has a prying gleam in her eyes. She really wants to know. But just thinking about it hurts.
The way Sam was sat in a puddle of her own blood, surrounded by empty liquor bottles, completely intoxicated to the point where she couldn't really see or speak properly.
Sitting in the ambulance and looking down at her unnaturally pale face that contrasted so much with the crude, jagged red lines on her wrists.
Watching the paramedics place her on a stretcher and wheel her speedily down the emergency ward corridor.
The sound of my heart ripping in two when the double doors closed behind her, as the nurses denied me entrance to the E.R.
Tears flood my face and drip onto my shirt.
"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to upset ya."
"No, it's not you, it's-"
"Excuse me?"
I look up at the stern face of a Matt LeBlanc wannabe who is smartly dressed in a neat white doctor's uniform. My stomach threatens to implode by the dreaded news that awaits me.
"Y-yes?"
"You are the young man who brought in…" He pauses to glance at the blue clipboard in his large beefy hands. "…Miss Samantha Manson, correct?"
"Yes…"
My palms are glistening with nervous sweat. He raises an eyebrow at me and then at the girl I'd been speaking to before.
"May I speak with you for a moment?"
I nod. Slowly, I stand up and wave goodbye to the girl, who returned the gesture, once more baring her blood-soaked hand. The doctor leads me down a cold, sinister hallway. Anyone watching gave me a pitiful glance or shake of the head; it feels almost like I'm the one who hurt Sam, and am about to be severely punished.
He opens the door to a dark hospital room, where the only sounds are a few rhythmic beeps and a bizarre pump-squish noise. Suddenly the lights come on and my eyesight isn't so poor. Too bad the same can't be said for my nerves.
"Sam…"
"You did very well, Mister…?"
"My name is Danny," That's the second time today...
He continues to say random things at me that don't register in my ears. I'm frozen in place. Sam is quite literally fighting death. Pale and sickly, I barely recognise this frail being as one of the most spiritually strong people I've ever known.
She hasn't changed much since I was with her in the ambulance – except the blood has been cleaned up and now she has more wires sticking into her than one of Tucker's many frivolous electrical devices. My pulse is racing so quickly my arteries may very well blow up. I can feel the sweat roll down my cheeks.
I want to move closer to her, if only to see her sweet face again, but something stops me. A menagerie of emotions sabotages my system. Guilt; for not getting to her place earlier. Fear; for the painful revelation that I'll never see her shining violet eyes again if she passes away. Nervousness; because I don't think my heart can bear to see her so weak and helpless.
"…That Mr and Mrs Manson want to thank you personally."
Hang on, what?
I spun on my heel to see the Manson's. Both of them, not just smiling, but smiling directly at me. Not so long ago Sam's parents put a restraining order on me for an incident that made them think I was a bad influence; now Mrs Manson is giving me a hug and Mr Manson is beaming proudly.
"Oh, Daniel, thank you!" she wails. "Thank you so much for saving my darling Samantha!"
"But I-"
"Uh-uh, no nonsense Daniel, we owe you the very life of our only daughter." He offers a friendly handshake, which I anxiously accept.
I try to fake a believable smile for them, but soon my face falls. It's very assuring that Sam's parents think she will be OK. I however, am far more sceptical. Sure, she's alive – at the moment – but she's still not out of the woods yet. I refuse to get my hopes up until the doctor says that she's well enough to go home.
I should be relieved that the matter of how I got into her bedroom on the second floor didn't come up, I imagine that they were just so thrilled that Sam wasn't... you know…
"If I may interject for a minute?" the doctor can almost sense that I want to be alone for a while. "I need to speak with you about some of the test results."
"Of course, Doctor," Mrs Manson sweetly answers, patting me on the head as the three of them leave the room.
I look over at Sam.
Nope, she's still unconscious.
Still covered in IV tubes, and harsh, red scratches that etch into her skin angrily. Still with closed eyes and a fragile aura.
I get a bit closer to her.
She hasn't died yet.
A plastic blue chair stares at me from her bedside, as if telling me to sit there. The metal legs scrape noisily across the hospital linoleum when I fall into the bucket-seat.
I trail my fingertips up her left arm gently, so gently I can barely feel her tender flesh yet so close I can nearly feel tiny sparks shoot from her pores. I follow the ridge of her collarbone 'til my index finger caresses her jaw line. Then I notice a gauze patch on the nape of her neck.
Three smudged lines of crimson stain the white padded wound dressing.
This is unreal. Sam isn't a drinker, she doesn't cut, and she never comes to school looking like the type who abuses herself in this manner. So why is she doing this? She knows I will listen to her if she needs to vent these feelings.
I recall the blatant despair and confusion that stalked her face earlier.
It was a strange thing to see. My best friend drunk as a tanked up parrot and slurring like her tongue was swollen. At the time, I was distracted by the shallow pool of blood that I found her in, so I can honestly say that I barely noticed the fact she was wasted.
My hand hovers over hers, shaking like mad. I lower it gently, fearing that even the slightest touch will break her like a fragile glass rose.
Her lukewarm flesh feels virtually soothing. My jittery fingers are calmed when they enclose hers.
I'm so very tired.
My body begs to sleep; my mind is threatening me with thoughts of unspeakable terror to stay awake. So who am I supposed to listen to? I'll tell you shall I?
The only person, whose opinions truly matter to me, is the girl I promised myself that I'd always protect. And it is entirely my fault that she cannot speak them to me.
I lay my weary head next to her mutilated arm. The faint smell of plasma fills my senses and act as a scented lullaby that takes my consciousness away.
But before my essence surrenders, and the waking world loses me to an overwhelming system shutdown, I swear that the hand beneath my own is softly moving.
The inner peace that has eluded me all this time finally comes back.
And deep inside, true to my soul, I know…
So I'm ending it here... unless you want a third chapter.
I know you won't want another chapter, frankly, this one sux noodles... But hey, I was sober when this was written, so it won't be as bizarre as chappy 1. No flames plz, unless it contains CONSTRUCTIVE criticism.
Thanks.
BTW, the Kaira mention in this story has NOTHING to do with the Kaira in 'Perfect Enemy', got it?