TW: mental illness, injury
December 24, 2000
We hadn't been waiting in the ER lobby for too long. The practically-empty room was furnished with plastic chairs lining cracked, beige walls. On a coffee table, stacks of magazines offered a splash of color. In one corner, a thermostat displayed 56 in stark blue numbers. In the other, there were two unfortunate souls: a college student with sunken eyes adorning translucent skin, and a middle aged woman who's thumb was swollen at an odd angle. They were both sweating.
I turn my head to gaze at my boss. He was leaning forward, almost hunched, with his elbows perched on his knees, his eyes squinted. He juts his jaw out, and then back in again. Through his pallid skin, I watch the muscles in his temple constrict and release spasmodically. I know that face, the face that tells me he's lost in thought. What could he be thinking about? As he lowers his head into his hands, I catch a flash of a watery, brown eye. He's on the verge of tears. What could he be thinking about? Maybe I don't want to know.
He's been like this for the past three weeks or so. Yesterday, when he came into work, the bags under his eyes were almost shocking and his curls were unkempt, but you almost wouldn't notice on account of the glaring way his rumpled clothing hung off his frame. I remember how he was quiet on the drive to the ER. Josh is one to sing in the car when it's just me and him. Lord, he can go off-key, and his taste in music is shit. I usually roll my eyes and tell him to shut-up when he sings, but I secretly love it. He didn't sing tonight.
What could he be thinking about?
—
They call us in. Actually, they only call my name, but Donna grabbed her bag and coat and followed me in without a second thought. We follow a nurse through old, wooden double doors and down identical, yellowish hallways until we get to a room. Actually, the nurse is the type of girl I think I'd normally find cute, but I lamely plod behind her without saying anything charming. I'm so damn tired and I can't get these fucking sirens out of my head. The nurse shows me in. Donna follows.
We do vitals - height, weight, that sort of thing. I answer the nurse's questions without thinking. After all, they require no thought; my answers are like reflexes at this point. I allow my eyes to move around the room as she deposes me.
"Have you been exposed to TB," her words are mechanical.
"No," mine are too.
"Meningitis?"
"No."
We continue this interrogation that neither of us want to take part in with mutual annoyance. It's late on Christmas Eve for God's sake! She probably has a family to get to. God! I'm ruining her Christmas. I'm already ruining Donna's. Why is she here with me? Leo probably sent her with me to make sure I don't… Nothing. I stuff my thoughts deep back inside me as I shift my weight around on the examination table. The paper crinkles as it's disfigured under me.
"Are you sexually active," the nurse raises an eyebrow at me. As I watch her eyes dart to Donna and back, I decide to crawl inside myself and never, ever return. Is it wrong to lie to a doctor?
"No," I mumble. My face remains flushed as the nurse finishes everything and eventually leaves the room. It's just Donna and I.
—
The rest of the time in the emergency room went relatively well. The same nurse who did his intake ended up removing the glass shards from Josh's hand and giving him stitches. I was waiting for him to complain while he was getting his stitches, or even impress the cute nurse with a sarcastic remark, but he didn't say anything except for a weak thanks when he was all stitched up. That was actually the last thing he said and he said it over 20 minutes ago. During the drive back to my place, you would have thought he was asleep if not for the glint of a blinking eye every few seconds.
When we get to my apartment, I park in front and get out of the car. It's cold as hell; I can feel my nose and cheeks growing red against the biting Potomac wind, not that it's ever as bad here as it is in Wisconsin. It isn't until we're halfway up the steps that Josh turns and looks at me, confusion mingled with exhaustion seared into his face.
"Where are we?"
"My apartment."
"Your apartment?"
"Yes, Josh. My apartment," I snap back as I fumble for my keys. "Your apartment has a broken window, remember? You're staying here tonight."
"Here?"
"Yes, here," he doesn't follow me when I open the door. Out there, halfway up the steps, the cold wind frosting his indignant face, he looks like a child. "Get in."
"Donna," he protests, but he's already leaning closer to the heat wafting out the open door. Soon enough, he's trudging up the creaky stairs to the second floor. Thankfully, Josh seems oblivious to the burnt-out lightbulb above my door and the other hallmarks of my shabby apartment. Almost as soon the door swings open, the shell of my boss has collapsed on the couch (much to the consternation of my roommate's cats). I hang up my coat and tuck myself into the cushion next to him.
—
Relaxation is impossible with Donna's expectant gaze lingering on me. And every inch of my body is begging for sleep, but I guess I know that that, too, is unattainable. I turn my head and look at her. I must look pathetic because her expression immediately twists into concern.
"Josh," she begins. "I know you didn't cut your hand making a drink. I'm not going to let you sleep until you tell me what's going on."
"Donna, it's nothing."
"Josh," her eyes were melting. What could I tell her? That I wanted to kill myself? That I can't stop seeing my blood pooling in my hands, hearing those damn sirens, feeling the bullet rip through my chest, living Rosslyn… I can't make it stop… I can't…
"I can't," I choke out. I'm vaguely aware of my voice repeating those words over and over. "I can't. I can't. I can't. I…" My head is spinning; I'm there again. I try to stop but, in accordance with my words, I can't. Soon, she's wrapped herself around me so I'm mumbling, then choking, then sobbing into her cardigan. She's murmuring my name into my shoulder, digging her hands into my curls. She's begging me to hear her voice, and I do. Shaking I pull away and take big gulps of air. How long had she been holding me?
"Donna, you didn't have to," I whisper. Jesus, I sound rough. I probably look worse.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"You didn't have to," she looks at me incredulously as I continue composing myself. My hands are shaking as I run them though my hair, the numbing in my right one fading rapidly. I catch another glimpse of Donna gazing back at me, worry adorning her red eyes. No use hiding from her. "I hurt my hand breaking a window in my apartment."
"Oh Josh," she sighs. "I know."
Donna curls up and tucks herself right up next to me. I don't protest. This is the most comfortable I've been in weeks. Her hand finds mine and through the haze of oncoming sleep, I half hear her mumble something.
"Hmm?"
"I said you're going to get better."
"I love you."
"I know," she presses her lips against my forehead. And then I'm asleep.
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This was my first fic ever! I hope you liked it because I enjoyed writing it. Publishing is something crazy and I never thought I could do it. I'm so glad the community is supportive and I look forward to writing more!