NIKE -Blue Lock-

Pollock's art

Two weeks. Minimum.
That had been the time the doctor had given the girl for her body and mind to awaken.

The same time Ego had decided to give the Blue Lock boys for a little vacation.

In the meantime there had been many checkups, many hospitalizations, and she had been kept in the ICU for a few days, attached to an oxygen tube.

The doctor had asked for a parent's number so he could contact them and be able to tell them about the young girl's condition, but no one had been able to tell him.

Therefore, the doctor had explained to Ego Jinpachi, the only adult in the waiting room, that the girl had suffered severe injuries on her torso, a concussion from a hard hit on her head, and deep wounds, particularly on her back, pointing out that unfortunately such scars would never disappear.

He had asked if we knew what had happened, what or who had caused those injuries.

But the truth was hard to swallow: we really didn't know shit.

I, the one who knew her the most, didn't know shit.

Suddenly nurses started running in a specific direction, behind them two individuals I recognized as doctors.

I raised an eyebrow as my heart began to beat rapidly in my chest for no logical reason. Out of instinct I blocked one boy, evidently a trainee, by the wrist, asking him what was going on to stir up so much staff.

"Patient room 37."

My eyes widened as soon as the number rang in my head, and the coffee cup fell from my hands.

Before the boy even had a chance to distance himself from me, I ran past him.

The previously pounding heart now seemed to gallop like an embittered, wild horse as that number 37 rang over and over in my head.

Why draw the attention of so many doctors? So many nurses? A red code? Had something happened to the girl? Was she in pain? Had she run out of oxygen?

I almost crashed into the door as soon as I saw it, risking dropping the 7 of the number just as had happened at the redhead's old apartment.

I entered the room with short, rapid breathing, my eyes wide and an iron grip on the doorframe.

Too many nurses, all shielding around Nicole's bed preventing me from seeing whether she was sick or not.

Preventing me from seeing her at all.

"WHAT HAPPENED? IS SHE SICK?" I asked shouting, but everyone seemed too focused on something else to answer me.

Panic grew even more inside me and, stepping forward and abruptly grabbing the shoulder of one of those nurses who was acting as a shield, I pulled him away.

"OHI, I ASKED A FUCKING QUEST-"

"Perché cazzo non sono imbottita di anestetici?"

The voice instantly froze me.
My trembling, shiny eyes slowly shifted to the figure lying on the bed, and only then did I notice a detail.

She was not asleep.

"Porca puttana, fate il vostro cazzo di lavoro. Dio mio..."

She was slurring words in Italian, her forehead with traces of sweat, a grimace on her face and her back arched as if she were avoiding putting it on a imaginary fire under her.

The doctor looked shocked, and because of this state of mind he did not move with lucidity and rationality. I could see how he cast alarmed glances at the file, how he ordered the nurses to run and get some medicine, how he cast furtive glances toward the patient who continued to moan silently as she vented her pain on the sheet she was clutching.