Alive

Chapter 17

Oliver

(Wednesday, May 15)

"How is he?" A smooth male tone.

"Better, Doctor. I've taken his blood samples. THC levels have dropped. Injuries are minimal. Looks like an auto collision." A woman's voice.

"Good."

"He's in and out of consciousness. Typical vitals for someone with his condition."

"Bipolar?"

"That's what he said when we spoke with him on the phone, and it appears to be accurate. High blood pressure. Erratic pulse and brain activity."

"Good. Call me the next time he wakes."

I am awake, Dumbass. Kind of. I can hear them, anyway. But my head is pounding, so it's hard to open my eyes. Hard to move. I don't know what the fuck they've done to me. I barely remember getting here. Just bits and pieces. Enough that I'm able to not openly freak out. Just lie here and wonder what the hell I've gotten myself into. Whether it's too late to get out. Fucking edibles. Fuck me.

"Oh," the woman says when our eyes meet. Damn it. She was so quiet, I thought she'd left. "How are you feeling?"

Like shit. I want to say it, but it's hard to talk. Impossible, apparently. I just blink at her, then groan. It sounds like I'm dying.

"I'll get the doctor," she says, then glances at the heart monitor. "And something to ease the pain." She winks at me through her glasses, perched on a slim nose. It's like she's from a porno, platinum blonde hair, bright pink lipstick, a bust size that can't be natural. Wouldn't that be a twist? I think I signed up for this shady mental treatment, and it's just some weird porn contract. Well I'm fucked if that's the case, too. There's no way I could get it up right now. No way I'd want to, either. It'd probably be some three-way with the doctor. No thanks.

"Oliver." A man enters the room. He's got black hair that's slicked back, sharp dark eyes, wearing this fitted doctor coat over nice clothes. Total douche. "How are we feeling?"

We? Why do doctors say shit like this? Let's be clear, asshole. Only one of us got in a car accident. And it's not you. It's me. In case you were confused about that, too. But of course, I'm just staring at him, grunting like a pig. What a nightmare.

"That good, huh?" He smirks, pulling up a stool and taking a seat. Then he procures a syringe out of nowhere, not dropping the smug look as he grabs my arm, shoves the needle in. Oh shit. I close my eyes. I was so not ready for that. Not cool.

"This will help," he says. "We'll give it a minute to kick in, how's that?"

Bad, Fuckface. Very bad. Worse, because my wrist aches and I'm twisting and turning but he's just calmly jotting notes down on his clipboard. Like he doesn't even notice. Or, more likely, care.

Oh...Oh. Wait. Nevermind. Thanks, Doctor. I let my breath out, the pain numbing, fading, then disappearing altogether. Damn, I've got to get my hands on whatever this is. I sigh, my head clearing up. The lights aren't overwhelming anymore, so I can look around. It's a typical examination room. White walls, green cabinets, silver countertop. Then there's me, on top of some weird chair with a seat cover that crinkles when I move. Which is a lot, now, since the medicine's kicked in and I can't seem to sit still.

"Relax," the doctor says. He glances up, watching my leg twitch. But I can't really stop it, so I just fold my arms, stare at him the same way. See how he likes it. He sighs. "Feeling better, then?"

"Yeah," I say. "Thanks."

"No thanks necessary," he says. I'm thinking he's being polite until he finishes. "We've already taken down your billing address."