Deciding, Denying, and Drinking (Part 2)
Here it is, the next chapter in this unusually serious fic.
The approaching sound of the siren brought you out of your teary fog. You didn't want to admit how much it scared you. The whole idea of doctors, medics, and surgery was terrifying. Ever since you were little, being in that environment sent you into panic attacks, and sometimes still did. But you said that you'd be strong for Jeff.
"Paramedics, open up!" Someone calls from the hallway, pounding on the door. You quickly undo the lock and people flood in. Guys in blue suits surround Jeff, yelling at each other their orders.
A hand on your shoulder makes you jump. "Sorry ma'am; what is your relationship to this man?" You attempt to regain what little composure you held. "He's my boyfriend."
"Uh-huh, and what happened here tonight?" he went on, scribbling on his notepad. "We were having an argument, a-and he's been, um… drinking a lot. He just… he just fell to the ground and started seizing or something."
The event immediately plays over and over in your mind. You felt helpless, couldn't do anything. "Miss? Miss?" The paramedic's apathetic tone pierced your thoughts. "I said, are you riding with us?" You nod. "Of course." Jeff is being rushed out on a stretcher and in restraints because he was still moving.
"Wait!" you blurt out to no one in particular. "Is he going to be okay?" You're met with grim faces. "He needs to get to an emergency room, now."
The ride there was loud, filled with the rapid beeping from the heart monitor, Jeff's groans of pain, and panicky, new EMT's. Yet your world was silent; you could only hear your own guilt-ridden thoughts.
"You should have noticed how much he was drinking."
"Why didn't you do something?"
"You just watched your boyfriend practically kill himself."
"This is all your fault."
"Caucasian male, 37, heavily intoxicated, seizing, and 103 fever," someone shouts as they lower the stretcher out and onto a gurney. You manage to leave Jeff a peck on his forehead before he gets whisked away. It takes all of your willpower to not break down right there in the parking lot, but you trudge into the overly-sterile waiting room and sit on a chair in the far corner with your head down in your hands.
"Hey," a voice coos in the next seat. Through bleary eyes you make out Chip's outline. "I got your text, what happened? Are you alright?" You choke on your words as sobs take over. His comforting arm drapes over your shoulders and pulls you in close. You cry as quietly as you can into the crook of his neck.
"He started seizing," you whisper. A doctor solemnly walks over and interrupts the conversation. "He has alcohol poisoning, and his toxic screening showed an overdose combination of Xanax, Asprin, and Wellbutrin." Tears well up again, but something catches your attention. "Wellbutrin? Isn't that medication for depression?" The white coat man nods, and confusion sets.
You were never on depression treatment… but Jeff is? Why didn't he tell you? And what else is he hiding? Chip takes a deep breath and looks back at the doctor. "So uh… what happens now?" The man sighs and runs a hand through his thinning gray hair. "Mr. Davis hasn't regained consciousness yet." He turns to you. "You said you're the same blood type as him, correct?" A lump forms in your throat and your hands shake, though Chip is holding them lovingly.
"Yes," you reply meekly. "Well, because of the toxicity that his little cocktail had, part of his liver has been compromised. He'll need a small part of yours right away."
Oh fuck.