X Bélizaire's POV
When I opened my eyes, I couldn’t hear a thing. Then, gradually, the sound of my own voice, panicked and filled with agony, carried into my ears. I could hear the driver and some woman yelling, and it wasn't quiet at all. But there was an absence of a voice, which I yearned to hear.
He was never that quiet.
"C-Cole?" I croaked. To the horror of the people gathered around to help us, I rose onto my elbows. Except I couldn't put any weight on my left arm, so I opted on rolling to my side. The movement made my head spin and I swallowed back the bile that threatened to make its way to my mouth. I wasn't groaning anymore, or at least I couldn't hear myself doing so. But I needed to see him, I needed to know if he was okay. "Cole?"
Cole was laying on the ground by the road shoulder, his back to me. My heart began to pound all the way up to my throat, when I saw the scrapes of crimson on the asphalt, leading to where he was laying. Motionless and so, so quiet.
"Cole, please say something. Wake up and say something." I tried again, but he didn't stir. Was he even breathing?
I repeated his name when the blue lights of the ambulance reflected from his helmet and continued doing so as the ambulance workers moved him to a stretcher. They took off his helmet and replaced it with an oxygen mask. Even that didn't make him stir and he was so. Goddamn. Quiet.
"How is he?" I demanded, when it was my time to get treated by the ambulance workers. The woman with a long ponytail, understanding eyes and a kind smile gave me a sort of a nod, which could have meant anything. "Is he alive?" I kept asking. She could at least tell me that.
I could possibly have reasoned myself they wouldn't be putting an oxygen mask to a corpse, but I was struggling to make sense of anything. How could something like this happen to us?
"Yes.. He is." Her words made me let out a breath I didn't realize I had been holding. The relievement washed over me and with it all the pain I was in pushed its way to my awareness.
"Is he going to be okay?" I whispered, as the corners of my vision began to fade to black and the world around me turned blurry. I don't think she gave me an answer, but I probably wouldn't remember it even if she did.
I had thought I knew what the worst possible pain was like, given the fact I had been through migraine attacks so terrible it felt like my head was literally going to explode. But the pain in my fractured arm and clavicle and all the other banged up places in my body painted a clear picture of how wrong I had been.
And yet, that pain was nothing compared to the looks on my parents' faces when they rushed to the hospital room. Mom, who was known for her stony appearance, had tears running down her cheeks and dad's eyes had a wild look in them. Maddie wasn't with them, which I was grateful for. I didn't want her to see me like that: all banged up and delirious from the drugs they had given me for the pain.
"I told you that bike is dangerous, you could have.. can you imagine how.. your dad and I.." Mom's voice came and went in waves, just like all the other sounds in the room. I was still pretty out of it.
At first I didn't even remember to ask for him, but once I did, my breathing hitched and it felt like my heart had sunk to the bottom of my stomach.
"How is he?" I croaked, interrupting mom, who was apparently still lecturing to me about the dangers of motorcycles. Mom blinked, staring at me blankly. Did she not understand a word I said or was my mom, Kari Bélizaire, out of words? Or was she trying to find an easy way to tell me Cole was.. No, nuh-uh, nope. "Please, mom, I need to know."
"He's with his family, and he is stable." Mom spoke slowly, articulating her words carefully, as if she thought I was having a hard time following her. Which was true, of course. I let out an enormous exhale, nearly fainting from the rush of relief. Then mom frowned, averting her gaze, making me realize there was more to come. "The doctors said he might not walk again, but it is still too early to say."
"Can I go see him?" I choked, horrified and holding back tears. Mom placed her hand on my uninjured arm and gave me a gentle, sorrowful smile, before planting a kiss on my forehead.
"Rest now, and you'll get to see him in no time." Dad told me, an uncharacteristically solemn look on his angular face.
I was about to protest, but before I knew it, my eyes fell shut and I was lost in a restless slumber. When I woke up, it was already morning and the sun was shining through the blinds. Dad was dozing on the chair next to my bed, his chin on his palm. His clothes were crinkled and the shadow of a stubble made him look older.
"Dad." I breathed, my voice raspy like I hadn't drunk anything for days, and I nudged his knee gently. I grunted with the effort of sitting up on the bed, trying to move my left arm as little as possible. When dad woke up, he had to blink his eyes to get them used to the brightly lit room. "I need to see him."
"Yes, I suppose you do." Dad agreed, massaging the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.
When he helped me to a wheelchair, I was about to protest: my legs were working perfectly well. But then a wave of dizziness hit me, just from the effort of moving to sit on the chair, and the wheelchair began to look like a splendid choice after all.
Cole's room was in a different ward, and it was smaller with no beds for other patients. My heart clenched when my eyes landed on his ashen face and on the bandaged, road rash covered arm laying on top of the white blanket. Dad wheeled me to his bed, and I brushed off a lock of hair that had stuck to his sweaty forehead.
He stirred, opening his eyes to slits and sucking in a sharp breath when he saw me. I could see relief passing on his expression, before his gaze flickered on my arm sling and his eyes filled with tears. But if the doctors were right, he was the one we needed to worry about. I placed my hand on top of his, not caring whether it was appropriate or not.
"Are you the driver?" A short woman, who had the same complex as Cole and his sister had, appeared at the doorway. She was holding a cup of coffee and the circles under her eyes made it clear she hadn't slept a wink.
"He is, and I'm his father, Stanley Bélizaire." Dad held out his hand and she gave it a hesitant shake. Then he gave me a small, encouraging nod and turned back to face the woman. His tone was soft, appeasing: "We should talk about it over a cup of coffee and give the boys a moment of privacy, don't you think?"
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Question of the day:
What song would you say best sums you up?
(Me: Busyhead by Noah Kahan. Honestly, I'm such an incurable overthinker and I get lost inside my head so easily. I create my own worlds and then I write them down.)