Always Thinking

Bells Singing A Tune

Amber Connor was always watching. Listening. Even as a little one she would pick up the smallest amounts of conversation, and analyze them in her head all day. She had picked up at a young age that sometimes adults put on a plastic smile and pretended they wanted to know about Ms. Dearia and the conversations she had with her tulips.

So she always kept them to herself.

Then it became a habit to enclose herself in her own bubble of thought. Why let people in if the darkness they like to hide would come with them? She felt a sort of innocence in her own mind, one that nobody could take away; but she was young then, and as you grow older you experience more and more until the gods find it evident you're no longer innocent. She was seventeen now and some would say maybe more vibrant as the years passed by. Golden hair that found a perfect spot at her shoulders effortlessly, hazel eyes that could only be compared to grass in a field of tall wildflowers, and a laugh that was so contagious customers at the diner her and her mother owned, Tip, would specially request to have her as their waitress.

It was there she found herself one day, wrapped in her mind bubble. Her homework was finished and the dishes from a long day's work were washed. All that remained was stacking the wooden chairs onto the tables that were stained a dark oak. It fit the scheme of the diner like a rose fit with chocolates. It was cozy and warm in the cold winters of Oregon, and cool like the shade of a tree in the humid summers. Amber was humming a tune quietly, completely unaware of the bell ringing by the front door, signaling someone had come in. As the loud glass door closed the bell rang again, and she instinctively called, "Sorry, we're closed!" She made no effort to turn around and wonder who had come in until the bell didn't hum its song back at her. Whoever they were, they didn't leave. 'Please just leave so I can go home,'' She thought, before turning around to usher whoever it was to leave. Oh my G-

Her thoughts were quietly interrupted by a whimper. He was a boy, with dirty blond hair and a leather jacket. His jeans were ripped... and covered in blood, "Help..." he whispered. Her eyes examined him quickly, his jacket was ripped as well, and the gray shirt that lay underneath was shredded to bits. His hands had a noticeable tremble. But his face! Oh, it was so dirty and bruised! His left eye was swollen, and what had to have been a cut above his eye was bleeding endlessly from his fair skin.

She sprang into action, dropping the chair in her hand on the way over to him. He was only a few inches taller than her at most and was leaning against a booth wall. Her hands found their way around his waist as she practically carried him to the booth, setting him down and pulling off his leather jacket. Even though his eyes were swollen, she could see the hesitation they held.

"You're gonna be okay," she reassured him. Their golden shade surfaced, and he attempted to help her pull off the ripped material. "No," she whispered. He immediately stopped, and exhaled from his nose. It sent blood all along the table they sat at, but Amber barely noticed. "I'll be right back!" she yelled back.

She put the track team to shame, racing behind the bar counter to grab a towel and bottle of water she had been drinking out of. Opening the cabinet below the register she pulled out a large first-aid kit and sprinted back to the table. When she opened it, there was an impressive collection of tan gauze, bandages, Neosporin, tape, rope, and a red Swiss army knife. Her own eyes widened in fear as his head began to droop forward into unconsciousness. "Hey! Hey! Stay with me!"

Practically ripping the water bottle's cap off, she moistened the towel and mercilessly patted it on a bloody cut on his forehead. His eyes jumped open and a loud and sudden yell of pain escaped his lips, as if someone had stepped on a dog's paw. She pulled back in half a second, surveying him. He exhaled again, sending more blood dripping from his nose. More carefully this time, she put the wet towel on his head, moving it every few seconds to different parts of his face. Several minutes later the bleeding had stopped and Amber sighed with relief. He was still sitting on the booth in front of her but looked almost worse than he had before. Purple, yellow, green and black bruises surrounded his right cheek and both eyes as if he had been wearing a raccoon's mask. There was something so off-putting about him because only moments before this one he had begged her not to call 911. She was sure he'd gotten a concussion due to the notable impact the bruises implied and that meant much more blood would still need to be cleaned up, as well as internal bleeding.

"I'm Adam Milligan." he finally croaked.

"Amber." she looked up. "Are you sure you'll be okay? You really should go to the ER. I mean-"

"Amber," He whispered, "I'll be fine. Thank you so much." He attempted to stand, but halfway through the process collapsed back down on the booth, gripping his side fiercely. It was a daring move, but she grabbed his wrist and removed his hand. He inhaled sharply, revealing a cut at least half an inch deep and nearly an inch long, seeming as though like he had been stabbed.

"What happened to you?" She finally asked after running the question through her head for the thousandth time. The towel was in her hands again, and carefully she moved his shirt up (yet another daring move). Slowly she placed the cloth on the skin. His convulsion caused by the pain would have taken three grown men to hold him down. He wiggled out of her reach, groaning in agony.

"Stop! Stop!" He yelled.

"I'm sorr-"

"Amber Genevieve Conner! What the hell?" Amber flew around and stood brusquely, seeing her mom Ellen behind her.

"Mom. He came in and he won't go to the ER! I-," she corrected herself, "We, can't just let him go out like this. He needs stitches."

"Yes. He does." Ellen rushed over and practically threw Amber out of the way, "Son, what's your name?"

He didn't reply right away and first looked at Amber, then at her mom. "Adam."

"Well, Adam. If you're not going to the ER then I'm giving you a ride home. Come on." Ellen lived with a stubborn worker, so she knew how to make people do what she wanted. Casually she picked Adam up from the booth and he limped with her outside. There was no goodbye. There was no thank you. Not even a "sorry for spitting blood all over your tables." Ellen simply turned around by the door and said with a stern look, "This all better be cleaned up by the time I get back." Finally the bell sang its tune and Amber was left with a bloody table and dish towel, a contaminated water bottle, and a blood-stained carpet and wall to clean. It seemed in the days that followed that Adam was the boy who kept her always thinking.