♡ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ꜱᴀʏ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ♡

2 5

(Cary's POV)

I was moving.

That was the first thing I noticed out of the still darkness. It took me a moment to realize, but then I heard the slow whirr and clank of a machine and knew I was being driven somewhere. Sirens blared around me, but they were muffled. I was laying down, my arms pressed beside me unnaturally. People were touching me: pressing on my forehead, tilting my chin upward, placing things on my chest. A couple of voices that I couldn't quite decipher surrounded me.

My eyes flitted open and I saw two blurry figures on either side of me. Upon becoming aware of my surroundings, I began to sit up, only for the figures to push me back down gently. My head spun like a top and my vision was blurry.

"You're okay," I heard a woman's voice say, "we're taking you to the hospital."

"Hospital?" I croaked, meaning to think it.

"Yeah," a man's voice responded, "you're about as skinny as a stick bug. When's the last time you ate?" His voice sounded odd, like a mix between a Southern and New York accent.

Hospital? I think again. "What happened?" My voice came out pathetically quiet and weak.

"Ya passed out cold at school, apparently." The man's odd accent began to pair with his face as my vision cleared up. He looked to be about 40 or 50, his dark brown hair sprinkled with stray, salty-white strands. His faded green eyes hid behind metal-rimmed glasses. With dark, saggy eye bags and uneven stubble across his cheeks and chin, he looked as if he hadn't rested in years. Crow's feet, though subtle, stretched from the corners of his eyes, along with smile lines that, based off of his mood, looked as if they hadn't been used in a while.

The woman next to me didn't look much better. Her light brown hair was tied up in a bun that looked to be falling apart. She shared those same eye bags as the man beside her, except her irises were those of bright jade, shining with youth. She didn't look to be any older than 25, and suddenly I felt bad for her being thrown into the medical field, losing sleep at such a young age.

I supposed that, as of late, I wasn't much different.

When I didn't respond, she spoke up. "What's your name, sweetie?" Her voice was silvery and sweet, yet tired.

"Caroline." I squeaked, my voice feeling tight. "Caroline Curtis."

"When's the last time you've eaten anything, Caroline?"

Hearing my full name felt weird. The only time I was ever called 'Caroline' was when Linda was talking business with me or when I was in trouble with Mom or Dad. The last time I could remember that happening was years ago.

"This morning." I replied. "Banana." My answers were short and effortless, but I didn't have the energy to carry out a conversation.

"When's the last time you ate something sustainable?" The man asked, emphasizing the last word irritably.

Sustainable? I thought a banana was perfectly sustainable. I thought.

"As in a meal." The man started again, as if reading my thoughts. "When's the last time you had a meal?"

I stayed silent. Truthfully, I didn't know. I couldn't remember the last time I had a full breakfast for the life of me, much less supper.

The two of them exchanged concerned glances before going back to work with some equipment beside the futon I was laying on.

Before long, the ambulance stopped and they rolled me inside. I wished they wouldn't: I could walk fine on my own. I just passed out—surely it wasn't that serious?