protect your head and maybe your heart too

death

I try and flex my fingers and sure enough, the same person gasps. "Janis. Can you open your eyes?"

I'm trying .

You try getting shot, bitch.

My brain comes to the conclusion that I'm in a hospital, and my next worry is getting my fucking eyes open.

There's a more femanine voice who speaks up next. "Should I turn off the lights?"

"Yeah."

All these voices sound so familiar.

Why can't I place them?

What's going on?

My head hurts and my brain feels like mush, but it's nothing compared to the pain in my side.

I feel myself starting to drift away again.

...

It's dark.

For a second, I think I'm dead.

But there is a reassuring beeping of my own lifeline next to me.

Somebody is still holding my hand.

If you told me they hadn't let go since the ambulance, I'd believe you.

Damian?

I think.

I try once again to open my eyes.

It's fruitless.

I do it every morning, why is it so hard now?

I try moving the hand thing again. That's how it works in movies right? The finger twitches first and then boom is a whole world of "what, where am I?"

I manage to weakly wrap my hand around the one holding me. Its owner does not react.

Maybe it's night. That's why it's so dark.

It takes a while, but I manage to open my eyes.

Yes!

It's a small amount, it feels like I'm squinting. There's a crust around my eyes that I would love to wipe away, but I can't even fathom the idea of moving more.

I glance to my right, and sure enough, Damian is laying there asleep.

He looks like he hasn't slept in weeks.

His hair's hanging down in front of his eyes with his head resting on my legs. The chair he pulled up next to me can't be comfy. His hand was wrapped around mine and pulled close to his chest. If I really think about it, I think I can feel his heartbeat. Or maybe that's my blood pressure.

It's getting hard to keep my eyes open, but I'm proud of at least being able to get them open.

...

It's bright again.

I don't like it.

People are talking in hushed whispers.

Damian is no longer holding my hand.

Who's here?

I try and listen to what's going on. My understanding of the conversation goes in and out, I can't decipher everything they're saying because they're speaking so quietly.

"....four days now..."

"Not getting better....doctors aren't sure...."

Are they talking about me? Has it been four days?