Selling My Soul for His Aston Martin.

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 Dr.Nelson shined a small flashlight into my left eye, then my right.

      "You don't have a concussion," he said in a slightly nasally voice, putting the little flashlight back into his pocket. “But there is a really large bump and some pain. May I ask what happened?"

      "You wouldn't believe me if I told you," I said, putting ice back on my head.

 Little kids are spawns of the devil. Period.

 Dr.Nelson smiled at me then wrote something in that hurried, unreadable scrawl that all doctors used. He adjusted his glasses then handed the slip to me.

      "Take this to your local pharmacy and they'll give you your medicine," he said, still smiling.

 I nodded.

      "Thanks, doc."

 I gave him a tiny smile, hopped off of the hospital bed and headed out the door. The smell of disinfectant and sickness slapped me in the face. I sighed. I couldn't stand hospitals. Curse those brats...

 I pressed the ice harder to my head and began walking to the elevator. My hand was numb with cold but the injury, a huge lump on the back of my head, was still burning. The perspiration from the ice pack dripped onto my hair. I was pretty sure that a section of it was damp.

 I brushed my hair out of my eyes and walked into a free elevator, pressing the first floor button with my thumb. I leaned against the railing.

 At the last moment, a middle aged looking man with a bandage around his head put his hands between the doors, stopping them while he walked in with his wife.

 We stood in silence as the doors closed and the lights pinged, dropping with each floor. The familiar, drooping feeling that comes with riding in an elevator assaulted my stomach.

    The couple exchanged looks occasionally, then looked at me, as if they wanted to start a conversation. I didn’t help them out. I was tired, I was pretty sure that my hand was blue, and I just wanted to go home and sleep.

 I was so glad that I didn’t have a concussion. At this point, I wouldn’t care if I had to wake up every two hours. If anyone tried, they’d get punched in the face.

 I was dog tired. The type of tired where your limbs feel heavy, your eyes are drooping, and you’re kind of on autopilot.

 Little kids are evil, energy sucking brats.

 When the doors opened, I began the shamefully-long walk to my car. I never understood why hospital’s parking spots were so far away from the building. I mean, what if you’re bleeding to death? You’ll die on the way there, alone in a parking lot, and they won’t discover your body until someone accidentally runs over it.

 Yeah. Totally sucks.

 Why was I thinking about this again? Oh, yeah. The long-ass distance from the hospital to the parking lot. They should at least have a trolly or something, like at Disney World. That’d be totally awesome. You could enjoy a nice, soothing ride after you’ve just cut off your pinky or something.

 It was really dark outside. The street lights cast a faint, yellowish glow over everything. I felt like I was about to get mugged.

 I really wasn’t in the mood to get mugged.

 Thankfully, my car was in sight. I dug my keys out of my pocket and pressed the Unlock button.

 I drove a bright red Mustang that I had to shed blood sweat and tears to get the money for. My dad certainly wasn’t going to get it for me. No, it was, “If you want that car, Jamie, you’re going to have to work for it.”

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