H A U N T E D

f o r t y - t w o

f o r t y - t w o

Monday morning comes faster than I would have liked. Alice lent me some of her thick woollen scarves to hide some of the bruises on my neck, with the yellow and red bruises covering most of the skin on my throat. The small hairs of the wool scratches at my irritated skin, so it's difficult not to get annoyed when I have to readjust the scarf.

Flynn chuckles at my repeated movements, glancing at me from the corner of his eye. One of his hands are on the steering wheel, the other resting against the rolled-down window. My eyes turn into slithers as I glare at him, not finding his amusement entertaining. We roll into the parking lot of the hospital, and once we find a parking space close enough to the entrance, Flynn pulls the keys out of the ignition and climbs out of the truck. I follow him soon after, although a bit uncomfortable. Today, Carlisle is taking out the remaining stitches in my leg, as well as removing the neck brace from my neck. It'll be relief, as sleeping with the contraption is not an easy task.

Alice called me on Friday while they had a lunch break, feeling the need to tell me that I am indeed a topic of gossip. Currently, the rumour is that Alex Kim and I had a confrontation and after threatening to hex him, he attacked me in self-defense. One student swears he saw me getting stabbed, and another says I tried to force myself on Alex Kim. So my nerves forces my stomach to twist and turn, making a slow rise of bile push up inside me. Flynn walks past the reception, greeting the two ladies behind the desk by name. The ladies, who pause their gossip for a second and set down their teacups, greet Flynn back with a wide smile. Once they notice me, their smiles falter a bit, but they make sure to upkeep the professionalism.

Flynn's steps are hurried, sloppy. He doesn't look over his shoulder to make sure I'm following. He trusts the quiet squeaks of my boots to follow the trails he leaves for me. I wonder if he's hurrying to avoid looking at the directions to the Oncologist department of the hospital. I know that if he does, he'll mostnlikpely remember sitting there with my grandmother, holding her wrinkled hand as Carlisle tells them the news. Flynn would probably had wondered how long her hands would stay warm, and his fingernails would have pressed into her fragile skin, as if clinging to her life force.

Doctor Cullen's consulting rooms are the biggest rooms in the hospital, due to him being one of the more experienced doctors who can treat a wider range of ailments. I've always found it strange how no one questions the fact that Carlisle states that he's twenty-five years old, has years of experience and is seen as a senior doctor. Maybe it's one of the things Homer just blindly accepts.

It is the opposite of his home that he shared with his family. Whereas that residence is warm and filled with love, his rooms are white and almost cynical. It is vastly different from the man I've learned to know over these past few months.

Shortly after, Flynn and I wait in the empty waiting room, waiting for Carlisle to call on me. My knee bounces nervously, wondering if I had any permanent damage to my vocal cords, due to my disobedience. We'll only be able to know as time goes on, but the idea terrifies me. And if I am being honest, I have never been comfortable in hospitals. They tend to be a place where people die. I have spent a few nights in a hospital bed, staring out at the corridors outside, where new spirits stumble through the halls, begging for someone to hear them. No one does, except for the high ringing of a heart ceasing to beat. When realization of the event sets into their bones, they sob. It is the sort of wailing sound you'd hear when a mother is no longer one, when their child lays in their arms, pale and cold.

Jack did ask last night if he should come along with me, but I declined his offer. I don't regret telling Jack the story of how I came in possession of my gift, but there's been a dynamic shift in the relationship. The past week, things have been tense between us. Jack wears his heart on his sleeve, although he tries to hide it. I know he's angry with my mother, and even though I know it is extreme to think so, a small part of him seems to be happy that my mother isn't in my life any more. These fleeting thoughts are too painful to ponder over, so I try to suppress them which of course, forces me to wonder about them even more.