I CAN PROBABLY NAVIGATE MY way through the hospital halls with my eyelids stapled to my cheeks.
It's not as if I don't want to; it feels like an obligation I have to come around at least once a day. If not, I might go insane.
The moment I enter the cool refrigerator-like ICU [they keep Casey in ICU in case his lungs relapse, since his lungs have the tendency to enjoy almost killing him whenever they feel the atmosphere is terrible].
My ears aren't enjoying the ricochet of a machine's alarm—from Casey's side of the ward. If it's his alarm, I might just turn around and go back home. I don't want to face a zombie.
Rephrase, I don't have the heart to face the zombie.
Please don't tell me Casey's dying.
Please don't tell me Casey's dying.
Please don't tell me Casey's—
My heart stops.
He's not even in his bed. His sheets are twisted and scattered around the room like chunks of debris, a full jug of water on his bedside table. His countless IVs are all but piercing his skin like it's supposed to and the Harry Potter novel has gone untouched on the bedside cabinet alongside a phone vibrating like a washing machine.
Blankly, I just stare at the empty bed, blinking as if it'll summon him. He's omit.
He's supposed to be in there? He's supposed to be bed-rested and as sick as a dog. Okay, no dog is as sick as Casey, but still, he's supposed to be stretched out in all his five foot ten-and-a-half glory, tucked away beneath the words of a book, not gallivanting somewhere in the hospital halls—be it for a perpetuating operation or to avoid me.
My vision is gagged by warm, tissue-y material, cupping both my eye-sockets. A body slams into my back, hands pressing my skull against an erratic rising and falling chest.
The whistle of the bronchi clears up if I'm being abducted or not. And the soft giggle of a child brings my smile up as wide as a Cheshire Cat.
I wedge my fingers in between my cheeks and the bony hands, trying to pry them from my face, but he just won't budge. Instead he leaves me blank and obviously pressed up against him in a not-so-child-friendly position.
"C'mon, Cas," I growl, trying to peel his fingers from my face one more futile time. If he's hot glued to me, he will no longer be able to have children. I'm just the right distance away from him to carry forth with these neutering plans.
His hands finally slip off my face, allowing me to regain my vision once more. I blink into focus as he centers himself in front of me.
"I see ye' no longe' a drag queen," I mock. His hair is back in his face, framing his cheekbones and he's no longer clothed in only a hospital gown.
"Well, I practically live here," he shrugs. "I can't be a crossdresser all the time." His smile fades when a nurse passes us, grabbing him by his arm.
"Enough tomfoolery," her tone is light and playful instead of stern. "Time to get you back on the IVs."
Casey doesn't even fight her. He drags after her, unhappily pouting at me. His hand grips into my arm like a hungry snake, jerking me off balance. I was so close to spreading over the hospital floor like butter over bread. I tag along as if I'm on a leash—his grip on my arm could be classified as a leash—back to his bed. He slides onto the bed, kicking all the blankets to the foot of the bed carelessly. It's cringeworthy.
YOU ARE READING
last resort
Teen Fiction❝Sometimes you've got to bleed to know that you're alive and have a soul, but it takes someone to come around to show you how,❞ She's the tear in his heart, he's on fire. She's the tear in his heart, she makes him higher. He's the butcher with the...
