Beautifully Broken 1: If You Stay

How long have I been here?  I see a plastic sack with my name written on it in black marker propped in a nearby chair and my boots sitting on the floor below it.

That’s it.

I’m alone in a hospital room and I have no memory of how I got here.

It’s disorienting.

I focus, trying to remain calm as I attempt to recall the last place I remember being.

A swirly, foggy memory emerges; a crashing sound, a moonlit night. Sand.  Stars.

The beach.  I was at the beach with that bar whore, Jill.  She’s always willing to do anything for a few snorts of coke.  And since I was in the mood for a blow job, I called her up. I don’t really remember much else, though.

I have a few hazy memories of Jill walking away. I think she was yelling.

And that’s it.

And now I’m here.

Fffuuuuccccckkkk.

I groan.  As I do, a nurse bustles through the door in faded blue scrubs, wearing a tired expression and a stethoscope wrapped around her neck.  She must be Susan.  And Susan’s eyes glimmer for a moment when she sees me conscious.

“Mr. Tate,” she says with interest.  “You’re awake.”

“And you’re a genius,” I sigh tiredly, resting back against the pillows.  I should feel ashamed of being a dick to her but I don’t.  I only feel tired and sore.  I tug on my IV.  The tape pulls at the hair on my arm. “Can you take this thing out?  It stings.”

Susan’s tired eyes house amusement now, a notion that pisses me off.

“Do you find something funny?” I snap.

She shakes her head now, rolling her eyes.

“Nope.  There’s nothing funny about a twenty-four year old kid who tries to off himself. I find it interesting that you would complain about the sting of an IV that is feeding you, but you didn’t care much about the sting in your nose when you overdosed.”

I stare at her as harshly as I can, although it’s hard to make an impact when I’m wearing a see-through hospital gown tied in the back.

“I didn’t try to off myself,” I growl.  “Fuck that.  If I wanted to kill myself, I would have done it a long time ago. Only pussies kill themselves.  And I’m not a f**king pu**y. Who are you to judge me? You don’t know me.”

I’m pissed off now, at her judgmental face and her misconceptions.  Some bitch in worn out cotton scrubs making fifteen bucks an hour seriously thinks she can tell me what’s what?

“Please don’t swear at me, Mr. Tate,” the bitchy nurse says pleasantly as she pokes at the button on my IV machine.  “I’m only here to help. I’m not judging you.  I’ve actually seen far worse.  I’ll call your doctor and tell him that you’re awake.  And in the meantime, your father left something for you.”

She walks to the little particle-board dresser that sits across from the bed and picks up a folded piece of paper, bringing it to me.  When she hands it to me and her dry fingers brush mine, her eyes change from annoyance to sympathy.  Neither sentiment is welcome.

I grab the paper, crunching it in my hand.

“How long have I been here?” I ask.

I’m calmer now, more polite.  She’s right.  She’s here to help, or at least, she’s paid to take care of me.  It’s probably to my benefit not to piss her off.  The fate of my painkillers rests in her hands.

The nurse glances at the whiteboard.  “Looks like four days.”

“Four days?” I’m astounded.  “I’ve been out of it for four days?  What the hell?”

She stares at me, a stern expression settling over her plain features.

“You were in really bad shape, Mr. Tate.  Very bad.  You should consider yourself lucky. Your heart stopped twice and CPR was performed.  You’ve been heavily sedated to allow your system to return to normal after all of the stresses of the overdose. You might notice some tracheal tenderness and some soreness around your ribcage.  You had a breathing tube and several of your ribs were cracked during CPR efforts.”

I stare at her dumbly.

“I died?”

She nods.  “Apparently.  But you’re not dead now.  You’ve been given a gift, Mr. Tate.  You should think on that.  I’m going to go call your doctor.”

She turns on her heel and leaves, her white tennis shoes squeaking on the floor.

I’m completely stunned.

I f**king died.

And now that she has brought it to my attention, my ribs do hurt.  Fucking A.  I groan as pain shoots through my midsection. And then I remember the crumpled up note in my hand.  I look at it, at the bold, scrawling handwriting.

My father’s handwriting.

Pax,

I almost couldn’t help you this time.  I called in my last favor.  The next time you mess up, you’ll be serving time.

Pull yourself together.  If you need help, ask for it.

I think you should move to Chicago, so you can be nearer to me.  I’ll help you in any way that I can.  Just because you have money, doesn’t mean that you don’t need emotional support.  You can’t do everything alone.

Think on it.

And stay out of trouble.

-Dad

I fight the urge to laugh because I know it would hurt my banged-up ribs.  What the f**k ever.  The idea that my dad thinks he can offer me emotional support is too hilarious to take seriously.  I don’t even think he has any emotions, not anymore.  Not since mom died. She took the human side of Paul Tate with her.

I toss the note in the trashcan, but it bounces off the rim and lands on the floor.  Shit.

I consider the notion of trying to get up and get it, but decide against it.  I’m too sore and it’s just not that important. Housekeeping can pick it up later.

However, before I can think any more on it, the tip of a shoe appears next to it.  My gaze flickers upward and finds a girl standing there.  She’s staring at me with clear, green eyes and she’s holding a vase of flowers.

And she’s f**king beautiful.

My gut immediately tightens in response.  Holy shit. 

She’s small, with long dark hair draped over one shoulder and clear green eyes framed in thick black lashes.  Her skin is bright and glowing.  And why am I noticing her skin when she’s got such a great rack?  I fight to keep my eyes away from her full, perky tits and focused on her face.