The Chime of Bluebells

6

I'd never been afraid of the dark, and if that were my case something had had to be done about it considering I someday would be diving down the black depths of the dark blue seas as a marine biologist. But laying in bed in the obscure hospital room, listening to soft footsteps passing by any now and then; a few beeps from rooms nearby; and the air conditioners low sough, my disquiet alertness only grew. Every time my eyes started to feel heavy and began closing up, pictures blew up to a storm before my eyelids. When hastily opening them, the little voice in my head took over and started rambling thoughts—me forgetting to borrow Quinn's phone and get hold of Malachi. The image of dark green eyes and ruffled hair the colour of burnt coal wouldn't leave me alone. That beautiful smile and the small dimple in his right cheek.

I miss him.

Too much had happened the past night and day. Does that mean you forget more easily? A question I desperately wanted to ask Doctor Doroweigh, but he hadn't returned this night. Malachi was one of the most important people in my life, the man who'd changed my perspective of love—the man who'd showed me how it felt to have butterflies in your stomach and how fast one's face could flush in a matter of milliseconds. And now, he'd been forgotten more than twice within thirty hours. It felt unnatural, as if all this was a lucid dream.

Suddenly, the creaking of a door alerted my senses and I quickly steeled myself, sitting up straight. The fear washing over me shouldn't have come so easily. This was, after all, a hospital and noises weren't unusual. Someone entering your room was probably part of someone's routine.

"Hello?" I asked quietly. Names of nurses hadn't quite settled in memory yet, so I invited the conversation of the invisible person in my room with a: "Doctor Doroweigh?"

"Try again."

Squinting into the darkness, my voice asked: "Noah?"

"Ding, ding, ding."

I pushed the button on the lamp at the nightstand. One third of the room pooled in light. Just beyond the boarder to the shadows by the door, a figure stood leaning on crutches.

"What are you doing in here?"

"Checking in."

The boy hopped closer. Coming in view, the first thing I noticed was the hood drawn over face and the grotesque sight of how the right trouser leg had been tied in a knot to prevent it from his rampaging. The sight of it would definitely have fit a horror movie.

I scowled at him.

"Don't," he said making circular movements at my face with a finger, "you'll expedite the wrinkling process. You don't wanna look sixty in your thirties."

"You'll get them long before me, with those permanent smirks."

That seemed to humour him. "I'll store that in my extraordinary memory...unlike some amnesi—"

"I don't have amnesia."

He rose his palms in shoulder height. "Got it, Agda." There was a short pause as I restrained the temptation to smile goofily at him, before Noah cleared his throat and made a gesture to the foot of the bed. "May I?"

Surprised by him staying, I nodded. "Sure."

"I know how the first night can be," he finally said,"how...scary...it could be. But, seems like you're doing remarkably well, considering. But," he thought, "it could have something to do with that memory los—"

My warning gaze cut him short.

I wanted to rub away that stupid smirk on his face. With a towel. Made of sandpaper. And glass...with extra sharp edges.