Being Wrong | ✓

Part 8

While his grandma called the ambulance, Charlie's grandpa helped him out of the chair and had him lay down on the carpet in the living room. It was slightly easier to breathe with his neck straightened out, but Charlie was still wheezing desperately. He felt like he was being choked. His grandpa was talking, maybe giving instructions or reassurances, but his words were meaningless to Charlie's ears.

The ambulance seemed to come more quickly than expected, and after that everything was a blur. He was vaguely aware of someone touching him and felt a sharp pain when a needle pierced his thigh. His consciousness wavered as he was carried out to the ambulance on a stretcher.

Charlie wanted to run away and hide and for this not to be happening. Why hadn't he just said no? He used to be so good at doing that, at screaming it if he needed to over even the smallest things. His dad had broken him of that too well. He was weak now, so easily hurt by others and with no way to stand up for himself. He wanted to scream just to prove he still could, that he could respond to stress with something other than silence and compliance, but he could barely even breathe. As soon as he was in the ambulance, they placed an oxygen mask over his face and the feeling of suffocation began to recede.

It wasn't until he heard his grandma's quiet sniffles that Charlie realised she was in the ambulance with him. He felt guilt run through him, quickly followed by renewed rage. Why did he have to feel guilty? This was her fault. Why did he have to feel this way? But he did, and he couldn't make it go away. He couldn't hear her crying and not feel like it was because he'd messed up once again.

Though his symptoms had receded dramatically by the time they reached the hospital, everything just became more of a blur. At some point, after he could breathe again, he was fairly sure they gave him something to make him relax because the tension left his body and he stopped shaking. He lay awake, staring at the wall, his mind nothing but static.

Charlie stayed in the hospital for the rest of the night and all the next day, and when he was finally allowed to leave they gave him a device called an epinephrine autoinjector. It looked like a pen and they showed him how to use it and told him to keep it with him at all times.

His grandma wouldn't stopped asking him why. Why, when he had such a severe allergy, he had intentionally eaten food that had touched the thing he was allergic to? Charlie just shrugged, said he didn't know. He was fairly sure 'because you told me to' wasn't the right answer.

When he woke up the next morning, much too late to go to school, he found a pair of new batteries laying on his bedside table next to his lamp. He tucked them under his pillow and then headed out of his room, still dressed in his pyjamas. He followed sounds of activity to the kitchen and found a half full garbage bag sitting in the middle of the kitchen and his grandma sorting through items in the larder.

She turned and gave Charlie a strained smile when she heard him walk in. "You'd be amazed how many things have carrots in them. Look at all this."

Charlie rubbed the back of his neck. Back home he'd been the one to check the ingredients on products because his dad always forgot, so he doubted he would be surprised. "You could keep them and eat them yourselves."

Charlie's grandma gave a sharp shake of her head and her lips pressed together in a tight line. "No, I won't have it in my house. Who knows what kinds of contamination, or... I think it's just best to get rid of it all."

"Can I help?"

The smile she gave Charlie this time was more genuine, though it still wavered at the edges. "No, sweetheart, you rest today."

Charlie hesitated for a moment, sure there was something he should do or say but not knowing what. Finally he nodded, then went back to his room to listen to his music.