MY EYES, ONCE peacefully closed, scrunch up to shield themselves from the harsh light streaming through my room's window. My head turns, burying itself in my arm, a desperate attempt to snatch any possible sleep.
Yet, when that effort proves futile, I remain still—eyes shut, aware but unwilling to fully wake.
Suddenly, a wave of dread washes over me, snapping me awake. No alarm; I'm waking up on my own.
Startled, I sit up in bed, intending to rush to whatever shift I'm supposed to be on, prepared to beg for forgiveness. But my thoughts scatter as a bout of dizziness and nausea hit me with full force.
Instinctively, I grab the plastic rail beside my bed to steady myself, realizing something is very strange.
My room doesn't have a window; my father boarded it up because he thought I was sneaking out to go see boys.
My bed doesn't have a plastic railing.
As my surroundings sink in, I feel the scratchy sheets and the crunch of the hospital pillow. I survey the room—it's compact. One window, one chair, and my bed. The jaundiced lighting from the walls gives the space a sickly tint, making it even smaller.
To my left, an IV bag stands with a blue Post-it note attached:
Had to go to work,
be back in the morning.
— Micah
I offer a faint smile, touched by the caring gesture.
I presume Micah is the one who plugged in my phone and placed it nearby. The time reads 6:14; the club must have just closed.
As if on cue, the door in front of my bed opens, revealing the man in question. "Good, you're awake."
"Yeah," I reply, though my voice sounds parched and scratchy. "Why am I here?"
He moves forward to pour me a glass of water before answering, "After closing, I found you unconscious in the changing rooms. You've been in and out since yesterday morning."
My eyes widen. "I've been in the hospital for two days?!" Hospital bills aren't cheap, and two days could rack up quite a cost, plus I haven't called in to any of my jobs.
Handing me the glass, he nods. "Yeah, I tried calling your dad, but he didn't answer."
"Okay. I need to leave, now." I swing my legs over the bed's edge, yet the action compels me to grasp the rail once more, battling the onslaught of nausea. My eyes close involuntarily, and I take deep breaths to regain composure.
"Yeah, no," Micah retorts, pulling my legs back onto the bed. "When did you last eat?"
I struggle to recall, but I can't remember; I've been too occupied. When I realize don't know, I wince. "I forgot."
He narrows his eyes. "You... forgot?"
I shrug, handing him the glass for more water. "I've been busy."
I hear a muttered "Jesus Christ" from him before he hands me the glass again.
Just as I gulp down the water, the doctor enters, glancing up from his clipboard. "Ah, Mayella, you're awake."
"It's Maya" I say, with a genuine smile. At least I hope it looks genuine. I hate that stupid name.
I hate Mayella. She was broken.
After my mother died, I stopped functioning, just like dad. I didn't get out of bed, I barely ate, I barely showered, and when I did it was with scolding water. Water that I couldn't feel because of the pills. Mayella was pathetic.
But while I was breaking, my dad was too. He'd lost his job, we were in dept from Moms treatments and it was only when he got an eviction notice, that I snapped out of it.
My thirteen year old self begged Walter, our landlord for an extension, I've done some... things I wasn't proud of to convince him, but I did what I had to do to keep us off the streets.
I stopped moping around, I got three jobs I've been keeping us afloat ever since.
"Oh, good morning, Maya," the doctor greets, shutting the door behind him.
"Morning to you too."
"Listen, we need to keep you here for a while—tests, to ensure everything's okay." I sit up straighter, seeking assistance from Micah, who's preoccupied refilling my glass.
I shake my head, reassuring the doctor with a smile. "No, I'm fine." I rise abruptly, but dizziness and nausea return with vengeance. I ignore them. "I can go, really."
Both men focus on my white-knuckled grip on the railing.
"We want to run a CT, MRI, take some blood—just precautions," the doctor explains, noting my reluctance. "It could save your life, and you have nothing to lose if you're fine."
"Says the rich doctor," I blurt out unintentionally. Guilt washes over me; he's only trying to help. "I'm sorry—"
He chuckles, cutting me off. "No, you have a point. But insurance will cover the tests."
Nervous laughter escapes me. "I don't, um..." My gaze shifts between the two, feeling their expectant stares. "I don't have insurance."
Micah releases a sigh. "Jesus, Maya."
"Regardless, I still think the tests are important," the doctor insists.
Sighing, I run my hand through my hair. "I have five thousand saved in case of emergencies, but that's all I have."
"That's an MRI alone," he counters.
"Then we'll stick to the MRI," I decide.
"I really think—" the physician starts, only to be cut off by Micah. "She's too polite to say it, but pushing her won't help. She has five grand, so figure out the tests you can do and do them." Micah's statement ends the debate.
҉
I'm sitting on my bed with Micah when the doctor walks in, holding the results in his hands.
His expression is inscrutable, and it immediately catches both mine and Micah's attention. We sit up a little straighter, the air in the room growing tense. Micah, never one to let silence linger, speaks first. "What's with the look on your face?"
The doctor swallows audibly, his eyes shifting between Micah and me. Then he glances at me and asks, "Would you like him to stay for this?"
I turn to look at Micah. Truth is, I barely know the guy. I can list his first name, his age, and the fact that he's a bartender. That's the extent of my knowledge.
Yet, some how, he's become the most important person in my life. He's the only one who will care even if it's just a little bit about whatever the doctor has to say. "Yeah, I want him here."
The doctor nods in acknowledgment and clears his throat. "You have a growth on your frontal lobe," Micah's face transforms into an expression of pity as he glances at me, but I don't react—my attention is fixed on the doctor. "And it appears to be malignant."
I draw in a sharp breath, my heart racing, but the doctor continues. "An MRI isn't definitive. To be sure, we would need to conduct a biopsy."
Micah doesn't hesitate. "Go ahead with the biopsy."
"I can't afford—" I start to protest, but he cuts me off without hesitation.
"I'll pay for it. Do the biopsy." Micah stands up, looking down at me, and all I can do is shake my head in disbelief.
"No, you won't—" I begin, but he interrupts me again.
"Yes, I will."
"But I can't just—"
"Yes, you can."
A nervous chuckle escapes the doctor as he shifts his gaze between us. "Shall I schedule an operating room?"
"Yes, please," Micah decides firmly, and before I can even begin to object, the doctor, with his shock of grey hair, exits the room.
"Are you out of your mind?! Biopsies cost like fifteen thousand dollars!" I exclaim as soon as the door clicks shut.
Micah waves off my concern casually. "Don't worry about it."
"You're a bartender! What, do you on the side? Fight crime or something?" My frustration spills out. It's hard to fathom how a bartender could muster up that kind of money out of thin air, especially for someone like me.
He chuckles softly. "Something like that."
☄︎⋆ ༘
Okay, I know this chapter is very, medical, and I don't love that... but if I finish another chapter fast enough maybe I'll double update.
I know things with Killian are slow right now but trust the process. It's worth the wait I promise.
Who's your favourite artist? Mine has to be Frank ocean.