A/N: I started this chapter at least ten different ways before I found one that felt right, that's why it took so long to update; I apologize for the wait. I'm also on vacation in Crete right now, and typing this up in an internet cafe. This will be my only update until the 10th of August when I get back to the States.
Sun Gone Lost
The reinforced glass of the window felt cool against his forehead - a welcome change from the feverish atmosphere of the ward. He closed his eyes, placing his hands flat on the pane and relaxing against the calming surface. There was a constant hum in the background, like a bee hive, layers upon layers of incoherent murmurs. He ignored them for the time being - the pills they gave him made it harder to understand what they were saying, so for now he forced his brain to focus on the soothing coolness on his forehead and palms, the cold linoleum beneath his bare feet. With one hand, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a worn slip of paper, wrinkled and frayed on the edges, unfolding it and struggling to read the sloppy penmanship.
My name is Noah Puckerman. I am 17 years old.
Repeating those words over and over in his head like a mantra, he slipped the paper back into his pocket. My name is Noah Puckerman. I am seventeen years old. My name is Noah Puckerman.
His erratic train of thought was interrupted when he felt a hand clamp down on his shoulder; he recoiled as if he'd been electrocuted. The nurse was standing beside him, talking to him. He blinked, staring at her. She pursed her lips, starting again and speaking slowly for him to understand. Her words were distorted, as if he was listening from inside a fish tank.
"You've fizzy doors," she said.
He blinked again. "...Huh?"
She sighed impatiently. "You have visitors," she repeated.
He almost protested her speaking to him like he was a baby, but his brain was all pins and needles, and he was tired. So instead, he said nothing in reply as she gripped his arm and led him over to the table in the corner, dropping him uncerimoniously into a chair.
He couldn't quite remember when the last time he'd had visitors was, but he knew that they came in threes, with only his old teacher visiting every time. He couldn't quite remember their names most of the time while he was on the pills, but he could recognize their faces and differentiate between them. He understood that they were friends. Today, his teacher had brought two girls with him - a somber-faced black girl and a smaller brunette in a blue-checked sweater. The brunette was the first to speak.
"How are you feeling, Noah?" she asked, her hands folded in her lap beneath the table.
He wondered why the people who visited him always asked him that. He was feeling like shit; wasn't that obvious?
He shrugged. His skull felt like it was full of cotton charged with static. Sighing and resting his head against his fist, he felt like he could just go to sleep and not wake up until the pins and needles had stopped their relentless pricking in his head, his eyes, his fingers and toes... even the tips of his ears.
My name is Noah Puckerman and I'm seventeen years old.
"Puck."
His eyes slid open at the sound of his name. Had he fallen asleep? His three visitors were watching him warily, as if they were waiting for him to say something. "Sorry," he said. His throat tickled and he coughed. His tongue felt coated with wool. "What'd you say?"
"I asked if they're treating you all right," said the black girl. He tried to remember her name... Anita? He gave up and focused on answering her.
He knew better than to answer honestly. He'd told his teacher the truth before, but his teacher had sided with the doctors. His friends were nice, but they weren't going to help him and he wasn't sure they could even if they'd wanted to. But he didn't have the energy to fabricate a lie, so he settled for another half-hearted shrug.
He saw the black girl's eyes flicker towards his hand, which was trembling even though it was only resting on the tabletop. He moved both hands beneath the table.
His head felt loose on his shoulders.
He looked out the window.
"We miss you terribly, Noah," said the brunette. "You were very talented."
Hear that? She said were.
He felt his heart clench. The pills were wearing off.
You were talented. Now you're useless.
Still looking out the window (because he'd rather look anywhere than at them), he raised his hands and covered his ears, an action to provide a false security blanket.
Not that you were ever much use before, though.
After all, how much use could you be if you abandoned your baby girl? Poor little Bethy, all alone with no daddy to speak of.
Poor baby.
"No. No. I didn't abandon her."
Really? Because someone did.
Sure it wasn't you?
Quinn didn't want you to be the dad, and then when she let you, you chickened out.
Coward.
Scaredy-cat.
Anything but badass.
Ha-ha! So much for Puckzilla!
He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing harder over his ears. "Shut up... Please, just shut up... My name is Noah Puckerman I'm seventeen years old."
Fuck, had he said that out loud? He couldn't bring himself to open his eyes, afraid to see the frightened and pitying looks he knew were on his friends' faces. There were tears pressing against his eyelids, a swollen lump rising in his throat.
Gonna cry?
Crybaby.
No better than.
Maybe you belong at the bottom of a dumpster.
Wouldn't that be a sight!
Trash like you know you are.
Human garbage!
Finally put where you belong.
About time.
Suddenly, he felt hands on his shoulders, grabbing him to throw him in with the trash, and he flinched away, his eyes flying open.
"It's okay! It's okay!" the brunette was saying over and over. "It's just me." She was standing right beside him - when had she moved? - and one of her hands was on his left shoulder, the other on his right cheek.
But it wasn't okay because he was sick and he was trash just like his dad had told him he was and he couldn't make them shut up and he couldn't quite remember who this girl was and the nurse would be there any second to give him some more of those goddamned pills and then he'd be right back to wondering what his name was. He could feel the tears coursing down his cheeks now and he felt ashamed to be seen like this. He felt ashamed to be seen at all.
You're pathetic.
You don't deserve these people - you don't deserve any people.
"Leave me alone!" he cried, gripping the brunette's forearms like a lifeline. He shut his eyes again, his ribs shuddering.
The girl's hands gently turned his head towards her. "Noah, Noah," she urged softly. "Noah..."
She's out to get you. Just like all of them.
There's no one on your side. You're just not worth it.
Not worth their time.
"Well, the King of Chicago wears comfortable clothes," the girl's voice abruptly cut through the clamor, sharp and smooth all at once. He gritted his teeth, trying to keep his mind centered on what she was singing. "Survived forty years on fishes and loaves, and his love is like a red, red rose - all hail the King of Chicago."
Slowly, he felt his body beginning to unclench and his fists loosening as she crooned, her palms cool and soothing against his face. "And the King of Chicago gets up around noon, singing old ballads from wild Saskatoon, and he's often mistook for the man in the Moon - all hail the King of Chicago."
Even if she's helping you now, she's not gonna stay for long.
Better things to do.
More important.
"And the King of Chicago don't photograph well. He's got nothing to hide, he's got nothing to sell, and his voice has a crack like the Liberty Bell - all hail the King of Chicago."
As the song progressed, the taunts and the insults seemed to grow quieter, blocked out by her voice.
"And up in his room," she sang. "He's got a rooster named Red, and it sits on a post at the foot of his bed, and the sun comes up out of the top of his head, and it's always already tomorrow. Oh, all hail to the King of Chicago..."
She stopped to briefly ask him if the music was helping, and when he said nothing, his eyelids drooping and his shoulders slumping in exhaustion, she took it to be a yes. She leaned him against her shoulder and continued.
"From the East and the West, they show up at his door. They clean out his fridge and they sleep on the floor - the reckless, the restless, the purposely poor - all hail the King of Chicago."
He found himself relaxing against her, taking solace in the feeling of her voice vibrating in her chest. The voices in his head had faded to a droning buzz in the back of his mind.
"But the King of Chicago, he's never put out. His shout is a whisper, his whisper a shout, and everyone knows what he's talking about - all hail the King of Chicago."
Her hand was rubbing circles over his back - he could feel it through his shirt.
"And up in his room, he's got a rooster named Red, and it sits on a post at the foot of his bed." Then the voices of his teacher and the black girl joined the brunette's in softly singing the last few lines of the song. "And the sun comes up out of the top of his head, and it's always already tomorrow. Oh, all hail to the King of Chicago. All hail to the King of Chicago. All hail...to the King of Chicago..."
He didn't say anything when they finished, too tired to think or speak or do anything else. He could hear the nurse behind him, reprimanding them for singing in the ward and disturbing the peace, and he could tell that an argument was about to start. He reached up and lightly gripped the brunette's hand, trying to tell her that it was no use arguing with the nurses - they always got their way.
"What is it, Noah?" she asked softly.
"He just doesn't want to take his medicine," snapped the nurse, placing a small pill cup in front of him. He glared at her. "Come on, sweetie."
He made a face and turned away, his stomach rolling. He felt dizzy.
"Does he really have to take those?" he heard the black girl ask.
"Yes," insisted the nurse. She put a hand on his shoulder; he edged closer to the brunette. "Noah..." the nurse said, her tone warning.
"No," he protested. He swallowed, battling a wave of nausea. My name is Noah Puckerman. I am seventeen years old.
The nurse ordered the brunette to move out of the way, and he felt her cool warmth vanish as she obeyed. He felt his spine stiffen as the nurse's grip on his shoulder tightened.
She left you. See? You're not worth it.
Not nearly enough.
And as soon as you take those pills, she's not coming back.
None of them are.
You'll be alone.
You are alone.
When did your mom visit last?
That's right, she hasn't yet.
Not gonna waste any more of her time on you.
She's probably glad to be rid of you.
Up until now she just regretted not doing what your dad was smart enough to do when you were eight.
"Noah," the nurse said sternly. "You are not the only patient I have to see. The faster you take them, the sooner it'll be over."
You're weak.
Weakling!
Belong with the trash.
"I don't want 'em," he said.
No one cares what you want.
"You have to take them. It's for your own good."
You know when they say that that it's poison.
He froze.
They're trying to kill you.
Slowly.
But surely.
Probably at your mom's request.
"Take them, Noah."
"No." He could feel his heart rate escalating and another lump rising in his throat. His head was swimming.
"Noah. I will count to three, and then I'll have to call Rick and Ted."
Weakling.
He swallowed, his nostrils flaring as he breathed.
"One."
Weak, weak, weak.
"Two."
He grabbed the pill cup, crushed it in his fist, and hurled it across the room.
As the nurse barked commands at the orderlies and another nurse, he pulled himself to his feet, knocking over his chair as he attempted to circle around her. But he'd stood up too fast, and the dizziness took over. He stumbled, shakily bracing himself with one arm against the nearest wall. The room was sliding in and out of focus. His neck felt like it didn't have a solid grip on his head. He couldn't fight the orderlies and the nausea at the same time, and he knew it.
The room pitched forward, and he retched violently onto the floor.
Ted, who had been about to grab him to help force the medicine down his throat, jumped back so the contents of his stomach wouldn't land on his shoes. A nearby patient yelped and ran to the other side of the room while the rest of them craned their necks to see what the commotion was. He could hear the brunette crying behind him.
"My name is Noah Puckerman," he said, his voice low and cracking, his words awkward in his mouth. "I'm seventeen years old."
"Good job, kiddo," Ted said dismissively. The nurse handed him another pill cup with a fresh dose. "Come on, open up."
"Can't you see he's sick?" cried the black girl, only to be shushed by their teacher.
He shut his eyes, drained and dizzy, and leaned against the wall, wishing he could just go to sleep and not wake up again. But it was only a few seconds before he felt Ted's hand grip the back of his neck, and without really thinking at all, he swung his arm out and sluggishly punched Ted in the ear.
The girls both gasped, and Ted stepped back in mild surprise. One nurse turned to the other and said, "Get a dose of Haldol in here, now."
"My name is Noah Puckerman," he said again, drawing himself up to his full height on unsteady legs. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. "I'm seventeen years old."
"The hell is he going on about?" Rick asked.
"Beats me," Ted replied with a shrug.
"My name is Noah Puckerman," he repeated, louder. He pointed a shaky finger at the brunette. "Her name is Rachel." Then at the black girl. "She's Mercedes." At the realization that he could recall the girls' names, a small wave of triumph rippled over him.
"He's doing the memory game again," said Rick knowingly.
"What?"
"Couple days ago he started listing off the names of the nursing staff for no reason."
"Funny," Ted said, crossing his arms and gesturing with his head to the teacher. "What's his name?"
The girls' jaws both dropped at the blatant challenge. His eyes flickered over to his teacher's face, the expression unreadable. The lump in his throat suddenly felt twice as big.
"Time's up, kiddo," Ted nonchalantly said a few seconds later.
He didn't miss the disappointment on his teacher's face as he turned his gaze back to the orderlies. Ted was now coming closer, flanked by Rick and holding one hand behind his back. But this had happened once before and he knew that Ted was hiding a syringe.
And he'd go to Hell before he willingly let Ted stick him with it.
"Get away from me!" he shouted.
"Noah, we talked about the yelling," Ted replied smoothly.
He backed into the wall, his jaw muscle twitching. "Don't fucking touch me."
"We talked about the swearing, too, kiddo."
He bristled - the orderlies knew he hated being called kiddo - but said nothing more.
When Ted was within arm's reach he tried to hit him again, but Ted was ready this time and together with Rick the two men grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him to the ground. "No!" he yelled. "Let go!" He kicked and thrashed and hit, but another orderly appeared and grabbed his arms, locking them in place as Rick did the same with his legs. He felt a sharp pinch in his thigh, and he didn't have to look down to know that Ted had driven the needle home. "No!" he screamed. The emptied syringe was withdrawn.
"This isn't fair," he heard Rachel whisper.
His toes and fingers were already beginning to feel numb, but the orderlies still held on relentlessly to his limbs, waiting for the drug to take full effect. The droning voices in the back of his head were starting to fade.
"You can have your pills when you wake up," said the nurse from above him.
He couldn't hold his head up any longer, and he let it drop to the floor. He teeth felt like they were coming loose. My name is Noah... I am... The faces of the orderlies were growing fuzzier by the second; his eyes rolled back, his lids sliding shut a moment later. My name is Noah... He thought he could hear the people around him speaking, but their voices grew quiet and distorted. He was barely aware that the orderlies had let go of him. My name is... Every cell in his body felt like lead. He couldn't move. Was he breathing? He couldn't tell.
My name is...
A/N: I feel the need to apologize for the intensity in this chapter; I just thought it was important to show something from Puck's point of view. As for Rachel singing to him, I do NOT support Puckleberry - I only felt that it was something Rachel would do in that situation. The song she sings is called The King of Chicago by Hugh Blumenfeld, who is unspeakably amazing. Seriously, look him up. Also, since the last time I updated this, I've posted three more installments of the Expect the Unexpected series - for Mercedes, Kurt, and Santana. Go to my profile and read them - they're in different genres than this if you're looking for something lighter. Kurt's is scary, though. Just a warning.
Okay, please leave a review and let me know what you think.