Imperfect | est. 2015

19. What a Real Friend Would Do

It was a blur.
I had nothing left in my consciousness and realization after that point forward.

It was just a scatter of broken pieces.

Literally.

****

I opened my eyes in a hazy drowsiness. I felt as if my head was tightly wrapped in duct tape. But then the image became more clear.

I was lying, motionlessly in a hospital... dressed with an IV and my hair messily tied back.

But I wasn't freaking out about it.

My emotions had dropped below ground and I had nothing to react with.

"What... what happened." I muttered, rubbing my eyes... and I had no idea if anyone was in the room.

But then I recognized a voice to my left, "You crashed..."

"I what?"

"You were driving completely out of control. Tyler said you might've done it on purpose."

I sighed, placing my palms on my forehead. The pressure felt relieving but strange. I'd suppose that I hit my head in that process.

"Is Tyler okay?"

"Why does that matter?" Connor whispered.

"Just tell me."

He pauses, almost hesitantly, "He's fine. But the airbag broke his arm."

I tried covering my eyes to make the light less harsh, but the headache was still there, "How fast was I going?"

"You were at 85 for a minute... then Tyler found a way to get you to slow down to 60, but you still swerved off the road. Nothing too serious, but the front of his car is pretty beat up."

I held my breath for a second, "Do I have to pay for it?"

He shook his head, "He actually prefers not to press charges."

I lowered my eyebrows but not to where he could see it, "Why would he do that for me?" My voice was almost behind a whisper.

He took a moment... long enough to make it feel more intense in my gut as I began to collect the memory of what happened.
Then he spoke almost silently, "Skylar," he said, "he feels awful."

"He should."

Connor gently set his hand on my arm, and pulled it from my face. The lights from the ceiling made it difficult to adjust.

Even with my arm relaxed at my side, he still left his warm skin over my hand. It was comforting, "I know it feels that way now but," he set every word into the conversation as delicately as he could, "he didn't mean to do what he did."

I spit out into the quiet surroundings, "Yeah! I bet he didn't mean to but it happened!... it happened, and I never knew who was responsible for it until today... I had nobody to blame but myself."

He had no response. He just stared at me in sensitive concern.

I gave him the pity of calming down. I only did it for his sake.
I was at the point of bursting.

I glanced over at him, blankly.
His eyes were on mine as if he couldn't bare to see me the way I was.
He had his hand tighter on mine and his smile wasn't there. He was worried even though I was okay.

His hair was messy and tousled, he'd worn the same baggy t-shirt, and leaned toward me to keep me from standing and having a climactic tantrum.

"You shouldn't blame yourself for that. You had no fault for any of that."