I clear my throat. “Nothing,” I say, then give him a faint smile.
“Right.” He scans my face for a second too long, then sighs and shakes his head. “Let’s go, come on.”
“Yeah.” I clear my throat a second time and resume walking, not at all daring to look at the hedge to my right again.
33.
Iabsolutelydespisethe smell of hospitals. That, and the overwhelming chill that blankets one’s body while being paraded through the glaringly white hallways in an uncomfortable stretcher.
The dominating scent of antiseptic, paired with the sterile stench of rubbing alcohol hits my nostrils, making them burn. I hear the wheezing sound of a stretcher’s wheels against tile as I’m constantly being rushed forward. My eyelids feel heavy; my lashes are crusted either with dried tears or blood, I can’t be sure. My neck feels stiff, immobile, like it’s being held in place by something firm yet soft.
I hear voices around me, most of which are familiar. I can’t understand what all is being said, though, which irks me a little.
“…looks like she’s in pain.”
“Is her breathing steady?”
“Why thefuckare you pushing it…”
“The doctor said he’ll…”
I try to make a sound, but my mouth feels sock-dry. I try to swallow, but end up wincing against the sharp pain in my throat instead.
“I think she just moved,” someone says. Not just someone, but… Dorran.
I ignore the pull-like pain in my lids and force open my eyes, meeting the bright blue ones I love so much.
His face is sweaty; his expression is pinched with one of worry. He sighs when I slowly blink up at him, then whispers, “Cigs, baby…” before leaning in and pressing a feather-light kiss on my forehead.
I desperately grab the stretcher’s sidebars in order to hoist myself up, but a mind-numbing wave of pain sears through the back of my skull, rendering me motionless. The hallway spins around me, the ceiling lights swirling at sickening angles.
A warm, calloused hand twines itself with mine, but before I can look at its owner, my vision turns hazy, and I once again fall into the dark, heavy spiral of unconsciousness.
34.
Iabsolutelyloathehospital rules. It seems to me that they’ve been put into place to drive a patient’s loved one to complete insanity, so that they, too, might end up needing medical assistance for forced frustration.
“You can’t just waltz inside the control room, Mr. Ledger!”
“You need to keep your voice on the down low, Mr. Ledger!”
“You are not permitted to physically harm the hospital staff, Mr. Ledger!!!”
Fuck that, and fuck them. But unfortunately for me, I can’t boss around the employees here at theLumina Pacific Hospital, even though they’ve all but deemed me a nuisance. Why, you ask? Let me list a couple ofveryimportant reasons for you:
1. This overbearing, ridiculously posh hospital is funded by the Lutkus family, aka Aras and his elder brother, Darius.
2. The head-staff of the hospital chose not to involve the Anaheim Police Department after witnessing Cigs’ condition upon our arrival here. It was mostly out of courtesy to Aras, but still, the gesture does count for something.
Ishift on my hips, then grunt in pain when the ice-cold hospital floor bites into my ass, and the white stone wall stiffens my lower back. Bringing my left knee up, I place my forearm on it, then stretch out the other leg before arching my hips a little to release some tension from it.
A tall, curt-looking nurse in a pastel-pink uniform enters the hallway, and as our eyes meet, her lips curl in a disgustful scowl.
I mirror her scowl, then smirk when she quickens her pace and all but runs away from me.
You see, the reason I’m so fucking irritated with the staff here is because they wouldn’t let me stay by Cignette’s side while they checked her out in the ER, possibly her vitals and whether she has a serious head injury that needs express attention. And then, they asked me to leave the premises when I told them that I wanted to be in the CT scan room with my girlfriend. I’m pretty sure one of the doctors even called me “stupid” behind my back, but I chose to practice restraint in that moment. Stabbing him in the throat had naturally been my first thought, but then my brain went back to the two goddamn reasons from above, and I had to stop myself from giving into my impulses. I don’t understand how normal people deal with this sort of bullshit.
I look up at the ICU room in which they’ve admitted Cignette. When they took her in, she was still unconscious. I asked the doctors to at least give me an update on her health, but all they said to me was to have patience. The fucking irony of it, honestly.
