Fireworks

49

Hey homies: small trigger warning for the next few chapters.  Allusions to self-harm, suicide, and other serious/darker topics.  Nothing explicit, but just wanted everyone to have a heads up! :)    Also I never do little author note things, but I just wanna say thanks to people who are actually reading this.  It's up to 214 reads right now and I'm like... wow.  Yes, a lot of those are from me going back to edit chapters but hey, there are still like two people that have taken the time to read every chapter so far and I'm astounded.  You guys are angles. 

When I step into the apartment, I'm surprised to find the lights on. Normally dad is asleep by now. Of all nights, tonight is probably not the night for us to start bonding. My eyes are dry and puffy from crying, I'm exhausted, and my body's stiff from laying in the same position for so long.

In the kitchen, my dad is at the table with his head in his hands.

When I set my bag on the table and clear my throat, he still doesn't look up.

Now I start to panic. I move closer to the table, and say, "Dad? Are you alright?"

When he finally looks up, I can see everything on his face. The exhaustion, panic, helplessness. What I can't see I can smell. The whiskey, his familiar cologne. What I can't smell, I can hear. His jagged breathing, the pop of his spine as he straightens in his chair.

"What's wrong?" I whisper. My hands started shaking for the second time that night.

He swallows and says, "Sit down, Hadlee."

I sit down.

We sit in tense silence for a few moments. Finally, he asks, "Where the hell were you tonight? I've been trying to call you since 9:00. It's almost 12:00."

I feel surprise, but force myself to remain calm. "I'm sorry, my phone was off. A friend had a birthday party." When he doesn't respond, I ask again. "What's wrong?"

He averts his eyes from my face and whispers, "Your mother tried to take her life tonight. She's at the hospital. She refuses to see me."

I hear the words, but don't understand them. Mom? My mom? The same mom that used to ask me to play the Golden Slumber lullaby every night before tucking me in? The same mom that would cheer in the stands at Colton's soccer games and bring me fruit while I was studying?

Your mother tried to take her life tonight. Take her life. Take her life. Take her life.

She wouldn't. She couldn't. She's my mom, she wouldn't do that to herself.

But she would, wouldn't she? The change in her behavior was drastic after Colton died. She barely ate with me anymore. Did she even eat? She took everything seriously. She was harsh. Withdrawn, tired, sad. I knew that. I just didn't think it had been that serious. I figured she'd get over it like the rest of us and start moving on.

And I left.

She barely even had to try at all to push me away, and I ran like the child I am. I left her when she needed someone. I should have known better.

I'm out of my chair and sprinting across the apartment before my dad can stop me. I don't register any of the words he's shouting, I don't care. My bag is over my shoulder and I'm out the door.

The drive is a blur, and I know this is the most reckless I've ever driven, but I can't bring myself to care. Not when my mom is laying in a hospital hurting all alone.

I park crookedly in the visitor's section and run to the sliding doors. The lady at the desk looks unphased. The waiting room is silent.

"Please, my mom. Amelia Jason, her name is Amelia Jason. I need to see her." I almost beg the woman.

She types some stuff into her monitor and tells me a room number after confirming my identity. I run. When I get to the room, there's a nurse at the door. She asks if I'm 'the daughter.' I say yes. She lets me in, and I see my mom.

She's ghostly pale and staring into space. She's wearing a hospital gown and tucked under the sheets. All of her looks too thin, too washed out, too absent.

She has a cut on her cheek. A small one, like she nicked it with a razor. I vaguely wonder how she got it.

When I sit down next to her and take her hand in my own, she looks over at me.

"Hi mom," I whisper, hoping she doesn't notice the tears already streaming down my face.

She stares at me for a few seconds before she smiles softly and reaches out with a hand. Her finger is connected to a heart monitor, and there's an IV in her arm, but she uses her palm to cup my cheek and she uses her thumb to wipe away the tears on my cheek.

"I'm sorry," she whispers in a hoarse voice. I wonder how long it's been since she's talked.

I shake my head. "I'm sorry." I echo, covering her hand with my own.

Her sad smile stays in place, but her own tears overflow as well, and we sit there silently crying for moments, hours, days, years.

Until the doctor comes in.

"Ah, you must be Hadlee. She was telling us you'd be here." the man says. I'm not sure if the she he refers to is my mom or not, but I just nod. He looks up from his clipboard and says, "So Amelia here is going to be just fine. An overdose is nothing to be panicked about, not at this point at least. She's been given Naloxone, which is an opioid overdose antidote, of sorts. She shouldn't be in here for long, but we are checking on some internal stomach bleeding that could cause us some problems. We're keeping her overnight for observation, you're welcome to stay."

I nod eagerly and say, "Yes, thank you. So the bleeding isn't serious?"

"Not at this point, no, but it definitely isn't good. We'll let you know as soon as we get any new information."

He leaves and I stay. My mom is asleep. I sit in my plastic chair and stare at her until the sun comes up.

All night, I think that I should have been the one to get shot on the night Colton died, and he should be here dealing with this. He was mom's favorite. He was the only one that could make her laugh or smile or give in when he wanted something. I don't know what I'm doing.

The next day is a blur.

They find that the stomach bleeding is worse than anticipated. Mom starts throwing up blood. Everyone tells me that it's not anything to worry about, that the reaction is normal after a strong intake of opioids, but they ask to keep her for the day for observation. That worries me.

I help my mom shower in one of the crappy hospital showers. She doesn't want to, but she looks so dead that I force her to just so that I'll feel better. When we finish she admits she feels a little better.

We barely talk. We don't touch again. I stare at her and she stares at the ceiling.

I wonder why she wouldn't talk to me before doing this to herself. It must have been something I'd done. Moving out was a mistake.

When it's midnight on the second day, I start to panic. Why isn't she being released yet? Everyone just keeps telling me not to worry and that she's okay, but I feel like something's wrong and I'm too stupid to see me.

I leave her room for the first time in 48 hours to find a change of scenery for a couple of hours. I've been determined not to fall asleep, and I haven't. The room is starting to get too quiet since it's midnight and everyone's asleep, and I could feel myself dozing.

I find a vending machine and buy a water bottle.

While I drink it, I wander around the floor of the hospital my mom's been placed in. It's really quiet, and the only people I pass are nurses in baby blue scrubs. The color is comforting, but the fluorescents make everything overexposed and ugly.

There's a deserted lounge area with a nice-looking love seat. I can't force myself to stay awake any longer, and I pass out.

When I wake up, there's a crick in my neck and it's still dark outside. I must have only slept for a few hours.

I nearly pee my pants when I see who's sitting across from me.

"Hoffman?"