Big Time Pain

New Chapter!

"Carlos, you know today she's with Katie in San Diego!" Kendall shouts.  

"I forgot, ok?! I just know she needs help. Logan! Can you drive us to the doctor?!" He begs the only band member with a driving permit. 

"But I don't have my license! I need an adult..." he shrugs. 

"Kendall, go get Bitters. We have to hurry!" Carlos frantically tells him, pushing him out the door and closing it quickly. Running back to the couch, he tells Logan to get the car. 

"Wait!" James cries. 

"What?!" Carlos and Logan yell. 

"What should I do?" He asks, arms wide open. 

"Uh, you go down to the pool and do...something." Carlos makes up. 

"Okay!" James grabs a pool noodle and runs out the door. At that precise moment, Kendall reappears with Bitters. 

"Let's go!" Carlos yells, helping the girl up, him on one side, Logan on the other, as they get her down to the lobby with Kendall following behind.

In the elevator, I try to stay conscious by glancing around and staring at anything, but my eyes keep landing on *him*, my hero, my newfound friend. Frankly, it's hard to see anything with this helmet on my head. The guy took it off his head and put it on mine right after he helped me up. I don't understand his logic, really. It's a nice gesture, but if I have brain damage, another bump won't hurt much. He glances not once at me, but keeps his impatient, worried eyes on the elevator buttons; lips moving slowly as he breathes softly, foot tapping quickly. Why would he be so nice to me while everyone else hates me? Had the word of how weird, horrible, ugly, and fat I am never get around to him? He probably doesn't know me at all and is only doing a good deed, then will be on his way and shove me out of his life tomorrow. Yeah, welcome to my life. Bummer.  

Once the elevator reaches the 2nd floor, he helps me down the hall to the near end to 2J: his apartment, I'm guessing. Oh, I know what he's doing! He's getting me alone to hit me and pick on me. The nice guy act was just that: an act. Now I am afraid, actually. Until I hear hollering and whooping inside...then I'm terrified. I tilt my head down so I don't see my fate coming at me. I'm not sure I even want to stay here in L.A. anymore. My life sucks. Bummer. 

We step through the door, more like stumble, and he nearly slams it behind us.  

"Hey, Carlos! Uh, who's she?" 

"Dude!" 

"Carlos...what did you do!?" 

So that's his name? Carlos? Or was it Kent? I don't know; it could be Jeremy for all I know. 

Next thing I do know, however, is that he yells something, waving his arms, and drops me onto the ground. Too weak to get up, I lie there until he realizes what happened, whispers he's sorry, and helps me back up, careful not to move anymore. I wish I could tell him it was ok and thank him for not raping me. 

"Carlos! Really? Mustache girl?" One of them asks. Why in the world have I acquired that nickname? I don't have a mustache! 

"Why would you call me that?" I mean to holler, but it comes out as just a quiet mumble. The guy leaves and seems to fly back with a small, portable mirror and points out a Sharpie mustache somebody thought I must have needed to make me look more presentable. At the sight, I wanted to break down right there in this guy's arms and cry until my tears ate away at my cheek flesh. I'm so embarrassed I could crawl in a hole and die and then it would all be over. Instead, however, as to not show my weakness, I curse under my breath.  

"Do you have any cotton balls and nail polish remover? And can I borrow that mirror? Please? I would like to remove this as soon as I possibly can."  

As quick as a flash, the nice guys get me what I need and hand them to me. After soaking a few cotton balls with acetone, I get to work removing the handlebar mustache some dick drew. The horrible chemicals waft straight into my nostrils and I felt lightheaded in the first few seconds, but I worked through it until there was only a faint shadow of the beginning product.  

"Who did this?" My voice trembles as I ask this while looking straight into my new friend's eyes. They are so dark; I can see my own reflection along with the sparkle hiding inside his deep pupils.  

"A bunch of people from the Palmwoods were in, like, a circle around you. I dunno their names. Sorry..." He mumbles, his eyes dropping from mine and instead concentrating on folding and unfolding his hands. 

I started to lose it and a single, fat tear fell down my cheek. If I could, I would have yelled at myself for being so sensitive, but that would be embarrassing and I really don't have the energy. I tilt my head down in shame just as I feel a rough thumb swipe the traitor tear right off my face, leaving a drying trail, but no tear at the end of it. Then, to top it all off, he drapes his arm over my shoulders and squeezes. Was that my imagination or did he just give me a half-hug? I don't know what to make of it, really.  

"MMHRRRRM" one of the guys clears their throats, making a not so subtle hint that we need to break it up or he will break it up for us. My guy's head snaps up as though he was caught in a lie or secret moment. I just barely lift my head, unconcerned of the guy's thoughts about me. 

One of the guys asks the one sitting beside me to tell the story of what happened. Is it just me, or should bossy boy ask me what happened since I just lived through it? Yeah, I thought so. While the boring recap was told, I took in an eyeful looking around the place. A ginormous plasma tv is hanging on the wall, a huge, yellow enclosed swirly slide on the other side of the room, a dome hockey game smack dab in the middle of it all, and the squishy, orange couch my butt is now greatly enjoying. Before I know it, bossy is yelling at me. 

"HEY! What's your name?" He asks, as if I'm a 5-year-old kid. 

"Uh, Chelsea. Chelsea Fockler." I might as well give in since he seems to be impatient and bullheaded. 

"How long have you been staying at the Palmwoods?" He presses on. Ugh. More questions I don't want to answer.  

"Um, one week? Yeah, one week." Frankly, I don't know if it's brain damage or selective memory, but it took me a little longer than normal to answer simple questions. 

"You don't know?" His eyebrow arches in an accusing, confused look. Dickface. 

"I don't remember, really. I think I have a concussion or something. So what are your names, then? 'Cuz frankly, I don't really know you guys." A quick distraction never hurt anybody. 

"Ok, I'm Kendall," the bossy blond pointed out quickly. 

"Logan," the smart black-haired one says, raising one hand as if this were roll call. 

"James," the overly obsessed with looks tall one replies, never letting his gaze break free from the mirror he cradles in his right hand. 

"And I'm Carlos," my hero says. Ok, so I did hear right. His name is Carlos. Nice name, really. It fits him well. 

As Carlos hurriedly talks to the guys about helping me, I'm trying to keep my eyes focused on something that's not doubling or hazy. I must have really hit my head hard because I'm having trouble even just staying awake.  

Before I even know what's happening, I'm being lifted off the couch, Carlos on one side, somebody else on the other. My vision's so cloudy as I try to focus, I can't tell whom, but I have a guy on each side and one following behind. I hope they are finally getting me some help. I don't know how long it's been since the fall, but it seems like an eternity. The last thought that crossed my mind before I dissolved into the darkness is 'why can't everyone have a heart of gold as pure as Carlos'?'