He is riding a tilt-a-whirl and he is going to be sick. He dislikes roller coasters, but more than anything, he hates rides that spin. Someone had dared him once, though, questioning his manhood. So, he is spun and tilted, and grinds his fingernails into his palms.
He thinks that maybe if he opens his eyes, he will be less sick.
His eye lids are heavy, but he opens them slowly. Everything is bright, almost sparkling. He sees stars.
Hearts, stars, horseshoes, clover, and blue moon, pots of golden rainbows and his red balloons. Okay… maybe just stars. And sparkles.
He vomits up a riot of colors that belong in a Disney movie. It makes him feel better, though.
And, it brings him back to the present. Trent is holding his head, Jeff is holding Nick's paper mache trash can, and both are covered in the brightly colored spew. David is conspicuously absent, and Nick is leaning against the open bathroom door, looking concerned.
The paramedics are leaning over him. "Sebastian, how are you feeling?" The female one asks.
"F – f – fine," he manages to get out. His whole body is shivering. But, he will be damned if anyone will see him this way. He rolls onto his back and sits up slowly. His arms tremble as he sits up.
Jeff hops up, and grabs one of his half-melted popsicles, and hands it to him. Even though he's angry, he accepts it. He's not sure if he wants one or not, because it is green. Sometimes, green is lime, which is good. Sometimes green is sour apple, which is significantly less so.
He likes real flavors, not luridly articial ones. Except, sometimes. Now is sometimes.
The paramedics help him onto the gurney. They are going take him away. They are going to make him go to the hospital. They are going to make him see more people. More people he doesn't know. More people he has to impress.
He's so tired. He's been through an earthquake, and now, this is the tidal wave coming to get him.
It is all he can do not to cling to high ground for safety as the paramedics lift him. It takes every ounce of self control he has left, and every scrap of dignity he has not to cling to the bed post.
Almost everything he had is destroyed; let him keep the few rags of his reputation.
The paramedics strap him down, a fire breaking out among the crumbling buildings. It's too much. He starts swearing at them, in English, American, Aussie, Latin, Spanish, and French. He flings every curse he knows at the paramedics. He flings them at Nick, at Jeff, at David, at Trent. He screams at his father, his mother, his teachers and doctors.
But, mostly, he says them to himself.
The paramedics wheel him through the hall, where he sees heads poking out of doorways. He knows what they are thinking: the freak is being taken away.
He knows, deep in his heart, that's what he is: a freak. That's all he'll every be. He was never in control of his life; this is his destiny.