This Story Has a Happy Ending

Chapter 2: Of Greens and Blues

Slowly coming to my senses, I realized that I was on a bed. Quite a hard bed, though. Whoever made this mattress did not care about ergonomics at all - consumer satisfaction, my ass. A lump in the bedsheet pushed uncomfortably into the small of my back. Shifting to the right to move away from the lump, I suddenly felt a sharp jolt of pain shoot up the side of my spine. I reflexively tried to use my hand to soothe the pain, but realized that my entire right arm was immobile. The small movement it took to move my shoulder reignited a dull ache that was already present in my wrist.

My eyes felt as if they were glued shut with cement. Little by little, I cracked them open, allowing my aching corneas to adjust to the hospital lighting. After hours - or maybe even days - of having my eyes closed, the white fluorescent lights seemed incredibly and blindingly bright. Had it not been for the telltale smell of a hospital bedroom, I would've been inclined to believe that I had died and gone to heaven.

So much for going into the light.

Blinking away a few tears from my watering, light-sensitive eyes, I began to focus on my surroundings. I was alone. A worn-out faux leather sofa sat in the left corner of the room, about a meter from the foot of the narrow bed I currently lay in. The walls were the same faded pine green colour as the sofa. Clearly, someone in this hospital had half a mind to make their accommodations seem more welcoming by implementing a woodsy, nature-reminiscent green theme.

Sorry, hospital designers, the green just isn't doing it for me.

The fluorescent lights added a slight blue tinge to the whole room, making it feel ten times colder than it actually was. I shivered in the thin sheets as I turned my attention down to my still-aching wrist. My right arm, from the tip of my fingers to the middle of my bicep, was encased securely in a blue plaster cast.

A set of footsteps in the hallway marched toward my room, stopping in front of the door. The door opened, revealing a man clad in light green nurse scrubs.

The green's already getting old, and I've only been awake for like 10 minutes.

The first thing I noticed was the bright blue streak in his curly dark brown hair. He came to my bedside, flipping to a page on the clipboard in his hand.

"Hi, Ms -," he looked down at the clipboard,
"-Dubois. You're finally awake! How are you feeling?"

He must have noticed that my eyes were still fixed on the blue in his hair. He self consciously pushed his hair back from his forehead, and looked to the side.

"Don't mind the blue, it's temporary," he grimaced, "remind me to never play truth or dare while drunk again."

My gaze drifted to his light blue-grey eyes; they were a welcome change from all the green I've seen in this goddamn hospital. His beautifully long lashes cast dark shadows under his eyes as he looked down at me. His chiseled jaw stood out under the bright hospital lighting. He looked young, maybe around the same age as me. The name tag on his shirt stated that his name was Evan Michaels, which sounded terribly familiar, but I was in no state to remember where I'd heard it before.

Well Evan, you have one heck of a cute face.

"Ms Dubois?" he asked, smiling awkwardly, "are you alright?"

I immediately averted my eyes as I realized that I'd been staring. I felt my ears start to heat up.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I said, or at least tried to say. My parched throat just barely let the words out as a croak. I doubt he even heard me.

I cleared my throat. "How long was I out?" I asked, careful to keep my tone nonchalant, as if I hadn't just been caught staring at him for 30 seconds straight.

He looked down at his clipboard. "It says here that you were admitted on March 22nd. It's been three days."

3 days? What happened to me?

The door to the room was flung open with a whoosh as a woman in a white lab coat stepped into the room. She seemed to be in her late 40s or so, her silver strands of hair still pretty unnoticeable amidst her dirty blonde mane unless you looked hard enough. An air of command seemed to follow her around in the way she held herself. It was clear that she was the one in charge around here.

"Ms Dubois, this is doctor Stratford," introduced Evan, "I'm interning for her, so if you have any questions, ask her, she's the professional."

"Ditto, I'll take it from here, Michaels," she said, hastily snatching the clipboard out of her subordinate's hands as he was flipping through the files attached to it.

He stood still, his hands still positioned as if he were still holding the clipboard. Dropping his arms down defeatedly, he turned around to leave, although not before whipping his head around and sending a death glare to the back of her head. The door made a small click noise as he shut it behind him.

With Evan gone, the room seemed colder, quieter, and especially more awkward, as doctor Stratford studied my eyes. I faked a cough, turning my head to the side to avoid her unwavering gaze.

"Sorry for staring, I was looking at your pupils. They look a little dilated to me," she explained, "you may have a concussion. Just the cherry on top of a broken-ribs-and-arm sundae."

I glanced at her, squinting my eyes in confusion.

A concussion? Broken arm? I'm clumsy, I must admit, but not clumsy enough to break a rib!

"Ms Dubois, do you remember what happened to you?" she asked, sounding concerned.

"Not really. I feel like I got hit by a truck, though," I answered jokingly, chuckling a little.

"Close. You were hit by a minivan while jay-walking across Yonge street in Toronto," she informed.

"I should've listened to my pre-school teacher when she told us not to cross without looking both ways first, clearly," I sighed, "what was I even doing in Toronto? I live like an hour away!"

"The first-responders to your situation said-," she stopped, refusing to meet my gaze.

"They had reason to believe that it was a suicide attempt."

Oh, I remember now.