Have You Ever Met A Girl Called September?

February 2.0

February 2.0

The worst part of the whole thing wasn’t even being turned down. In my heart I had known it was inevitable; a girl like her would never go for me. Though I hadn’t really expected it to be quite so embarrassing.

The worst part of it was definitely the walk home, being too ashamed to catch a taxi, a light drizzle of rain seeping its way through my jumper. I was dreading admitting my mistake and rejection to call, dreading to see his foreseeable laughter.

 If you could even call it laughter.

 If I didn't know him better, I'd say he was wetting himself. Seriously; it took five minutes of him bent towards the ground, clutching his stomach as he doubled over in laughter, for me to slap him on the back in frustration.

 It was bad enough that I had to face my defeat, without having a constant, mocking reminder in my face.

 But you know what they say: what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. At least now I know never to make a comment about a wedding on the first date (thinking back, I do realise how forward it must've sounded to her). And now I'm on a roll of positive thinking: I have eleven more tries. There has to be someone there for me somewhere.

 I hear a deafening crash outside the door, the unfamiliar thud of things tumbling to the floor. Then comes Karl's whiny voice, "Aw, crap!"

 I sprint out the room, wincing when I catch sight of the entire contents of my twelve foot bookshelf sprawled across the living room, pages open, spines bent. I let out a small gasp when I see a page has been ripped out and is just lying there, alone in the room.

 My books are my babies; my whole life revolves around them.

 And Karl knows exactly how much they mean to me - which makes me even more confused as to why he's lying on the floor with half the book-case crushing his left leg. I rush over and take his arm, pulling him out from under as he winces in pain, sneaking a glance at his leg. It's bent at an unusual angle that makes me want to throw up; I can see the white of a bone about to stick through the skin.

 Karl whimpers and leans over, his face white. I kneel down in front of him. "I'm going to call an ambulance, okay?"

 He manages a shaky nod, before leaning over, retching up. I grab the nearest phone and dial in 999, explaining, strickenly, the situation to the lady who picks up.

 I'm not good I these situations. Once, a long time ago, I found my mum unconscious at the bottom of the stairs. I must of only been twelve at the time, and I had panicked. I hadn't rung the services, done anything. Kat returned later and got everything in control even though she was only eight at the time. Thankfully it was only a concussion from hitting her head that had caused my mother to faint. Everything ended up okay.

 Just like Karl would.

 Or that's what I was trying to tell myself.

 I carefully pull Karl up by his elbows so he was leaning against the sofa, all colour flushed from his face. I leant down so our eyes were aligned. "Hey, buddy," I spoke softly. "You doing okay?"

 He manages a weak nod, but is in too much pain to speak. I am surprised he isn't screaming, in all the books I've read that was what normally happened when someone broke a bone.

 But to his credit, Karl was not a normal person. He’s stronger, and I wouldn't be here without him.

 Ω Ω Ω Ω Ω

 I hate hospitals. With a passion.

 The disinfectant, the depressing tension, the whiteness. It gets to me. I start to think about how unfair the world is, how unfair it is that we even need hospitals. Why do some get to be healthy, and some don't?