A Foreign Love Song (Jake Bateman x Johnnie Guilbert)

3: Johnnie

As I undid my bandage, I revealed below it a spiderweb of deep and shallow cuts from the broken glass earlier. I'd driven Jake out because he'd kept asking about it. For God's sake, it was like he thought I'd done it on purpose. I don't need stitches. Some cuts just bleed for a long time, right? The particularly deep cuts were still coughing out fresh red liquids. I washed my hand and wrapped a fresh bandage on it. Creature looked up at me with accusing eyes. "I'm fine," I told him, like he understood me. "The last thing Jake needs is to know that he was right." I pretended like Creature had argued back. "Yes, I know he was right! I know he was only just trying to help me." I ran my fingers through my hair. "And I know how I feel about him." I looked back at the dog. "You're a real tough customer, you know that?" I sighed and picked him up. "I guess if you really think I should get stitches, I'll get Jake to accompany me to the hospital."

I secretly had his number on speed dial, so called him up with only one button on my phone. He picked up after a few rings. "Did something happen?" He asked, voice panicked. 

"No, no," I assured him. "You were right, though. I need stitches. Can....can you go with me to the hospital. There might be, uh, shards of glass imbedded into my skin. I don't know if that's the kind of news I can bare to hear by myself."

There was a long pause on his end. "Alright. I'll take a bus over and walk for a while. It should take me a half an hour to get there."

"I appreciate it," I told him. In reality, I didn't exactly need someone to take me to the hospital. I could handle gruesome news about a shard of glass imbedded into my skin. However, the thought of getting Jake to squeeze my hand reassuringly while I pretend to cringe over terrible news is, well, comforting. I hung up the phone, putting it down afterwards. I took the time to find a pair of shoes to put on and lace up while I still had the motivation. I didn't bother to take the makeup off of my face, either. I decided that if I was going to a hospital, I may as well let my hand bleed out. It wasn't like Jake was going to let me drive. I unraveled the white cloth I'd covered the cuts with. 

As he'd told me, Jake arrived back at my door within a half an hour. I opened it, looking as miserable as I could. This was not very difficult. "Come on," He told me. He led me to my own car, and I handed him the keys. "At least tell me you have insurance?"

I thought for a moment. "Yeah," I told him. "I have insurance." I opened the passenger side door and sank down into the seat of my car. Jake took the wheel soon after. He drove anxiously, (He stopped quickly at signs and lights, and gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white), which I found very reassuring. 

"You don't seriously think that you have glass imbedded into your skin, do you?" He asked nervously. 

I looked at my hand. "I might. We won't know until the doctor tells us, now will we?" 

"Johnnie."

"No, I don't seriously think that I have glass imbedded into my hand. But at the same time, someone is going to be pushing a needle into my skin. Repeatedly."

He sighed. "I guess that does sound painful."

I looked out the window, watching trees go by. "It will be painful," I muttered. The car turned into an entrance. It took us about ten minutes to find a parking space in the overflowing hospital parking lot. We walked for what felt like a mile all of the way up to the entrance of the hospital. Out of breath, I was pissed off when I saw something at this entrance. "They have a valet?!"

Jake stopped and looked up. "Goddammit!" He grumbled to himself as we walked up to the desk. 

The lady at the front desk looked up at us. "Were you attacked by your eye makeup, gentlemen?" She asked sarcastically. 

"I cut my hand very badly. It's still bleeding," I told her, holding up my palm. Her eyes grew wide at the damage. She handed me a clipboard and told me to fill it out and return it. I'd fucked up my right hand, unfortunately. I handed the board to Jake. "You'll have to fill it out for me," I told him while we found two uncomfortable, fabric seats. 

He started filling out some of the information without asking questions. He already knew my name, age, gender, date of birth, all that jazz. "Cause of injury?"

"I cut my hand on broken glass."

"On a scale from one to ten, how would you rate your pain?"

I looked over his shoulder. "Probably a fo-five." I decided to wing it a little. It did sting pretty badly now that the bandage wasn't on it anymore. I probably could've said it was a six, but that feels a little excessive. 

"And you're not allergic to any medication?"

"No."

"Any other existing conditions?"

Depression, anxiety, other scars from other 'accidents.' "No."

Jake stood up and went to return the form to the lady at the desk. She took it  from him. She probably told him that a doctor would come to see me shortly. When he returned to me, he tried to get a glimpse of the damage on my hand. I closed my hand so he couldn't see. This was a mistake. My fingers stung against the scars. I winced and opened my hand immediately, happy to have the pain gone, or at least dulled. Just as the nurse had said, a doctor came to see us immediately. I was led back to a room which I shared with a mystery patient behind a curtain. I sat on the hospital bed, making sure that my hand was visible. The doctor read over the form that Jake had filled out, who was standing around awkwardly. 

"So I'm guessing we need stitches?" The doctor asked. He was younger, probably fresh out of med school. 

I nodded. 

He put latex gloves over his hands and then reached for mine. He examined my palm with precision. "Those are some deep cuts," He told me. "When did this happen?"

"A few hours ago," I said. 

"You should've come sooner." He went for the door. "You're going to get a numbing shot, and then the stitches," He said. Then he left.

"That was a fast diagnosis," Jake noted.

I nodded. "Usually I feel that it would take longer."

I thought the stitches would be terrible. 

I was wrong.

The numbing shot was pure hell. If you've never had a needle in your palm, you cannot judge me when I tell you that I actually screamed and cried in pain. I scared Jake so badly that he actually held my other hand deathly tight while I got the stitches. I did not ask him to do this.

That was the only good thing that came of this hospital visit.