Last night, I fell asleep at Jude’s house. We finally stopped hugging, and he told me that he’d sleep on the ground. He said that he was too much of a gentleman to let me sleep on the bed with or without me, and I told him that his words were crap. He laughed and hugged me again but then grabbed a pillow and fell asleep on the ground.
He woke me up five minutes ago by yanking the covers off my body and telling me that he needed to take me home.
Once we were in the car and on the way home, I decided it was time that was talked about what happened at the hospital, but when I brought it up, he told me to be quiet and not ruin things. This is basically what the conversation was like:
Me: “Jude, can we talk?”
Jude: “About what?”
Me: “What happened at the hospital?”
Jude: “I’m not talking about that.”
Me: “But—“
Jude: “I’m not talking about that.”
Me: “Jude—“
Jude: “I said I’m not talking about that. End of conversation.”
And that was that. Now the silence in this car is deafening and it’s worse than it has ever been before. I know that last night was our single moment and that there will never be another one like it, but it’s still nice to dream, right?
About five minutes into the car ride, I begin to feel light headed, but I don’t tell Jude that. He’ll either freak out or tell me to cry a river, build a bridge, and get over it. The feeling goes away for a few moments, but it quickly returns with a stronger vengeance than previously.
It’s only a few more minutes, I repeat in my head over and over again until I can focus on other things rather than the raging headache I’m having. Only a few more minutes. Then I’ll be home. Just a few more minutes.
The pain begins at my stomach and works its way up into my head, and I swear that I could stab myself in the eye right now and the pain of that would be less than the infuriating migraine that I’m getting.
So when we finally arrive at my house, I jump out of the car, not even bothering to tell Jude bye. I rush up to my room and fall on the bed, clenching my head between my hands. Maybe all I need is a nap. Then I’ll feel better. And so I go to sleep.
“Is she going to be alright?”
“I don’t really care.”
“You’re her mother.”
“It’s your job to care, now. Not mine.”
“You never cared.”
“It was never my problem.”
“Just go call the freaking hospital while I deal with her.”
“Whatever.”
The voices pound against my head, and I just want them to shut up. I can figure out that it’s my mother and my dad, but I really don’t care who they are right now. The migraine that won’t go away is the only thing I’m worried about right now.
YOU ARE READING
Three Months
Teen FictionPaisley has a bucket list. After all, she's going to die in three months. What she expects is for her little excursions to be fun-filled and light-hearted, but what she doesn't expect is to have one thing on her bucket list that can only be achieved...
