Daffodil Sprouts🌼

Ch. 51 ' Moving On.

I remember the first time I saw Jason. He was just another face in the crowd. One that dared to double-cross me.

I remember swinging the wristwatch pack in his face.

I remember complaining about him. Awful, harsh Jason.

I remember bothering him. Bothering and bothering.

I remember our last face-off. I might've cried, and those other moments might've been annoying in several ways. But if I knew I would one day stare at his face and it would be covered with bandages, I would've treasured those times he glared at me and hung unto them a little longer.

Once I see him almost lifeless on the bed, with so many tubes connected to him, with the middle of his face barely visible beneath bandages, and his eyes shut, I finally realise what I was running away from. I kind of knew seeing this would break me.

Somewhere in me, I hoped that once I entered, he would be seated, waiting with glowering eyes. I hoped that when I entered, I would be blasted with angry words and curses and every other bad thing he'd have in mind to say to me. I badly hoped that would've been what would happen.

Not this.

This is torture. A hammer strike right on the face. I've hurt him again, but this time, it's so bad that he can't even vent.

To think, it was something like this I was trying to avoid.

I instinctively shift backwards. Away and away, out of the room. I want to run but I don't have the strength to. All my energy is exerted on the tears continuously streaming down my face. I'm crying so hard Jason's bed is a blur. When I reach the entrance, I have to use my hands to feel my way out because I can't bring myself to look away. I stare down the corridor. I realise I can't make out how I reached here, the private care area, and hence don't know which way to leave towards either. Backwards, or forwards.

In the blur of my sight, the stature of a man forms and I recognise Jason's Dad. His image disappears as soon as it forms, consumed by more tears. I put my hands over my face, trying to reduce the noise I'm making and get myself out of here. If I know where the restroom is, I would be running there already. I just want to hide somewhere and cry forever. Or at least, until these aches cease.

I'm in someone's arms again, my body trembling against theirs.

Why does everyone keep being nice to me despite all I've caused? How, when I can't even stand myself? Aren't they seeing it in the same way I am?

He ushers me to the bench opposite the room entrance and wipes away my tears. "Hey, look at me."

I put my face back in my hands. "I can't," I choke. The guilt that crushes me every time I do is too much weight to bear. It's something I know I deserve, but can't bring myself to take.

"Yesmi, look at me . . . ?"

I don't respond, leaving my face in my hands.

A few seconds after, his hands leave my arms, but I don't hear him stand or walk away. I peep at him. Noticing, he speaks.

"What makes you cry?"

I don't answer.

He looks at me. "His condition?"

I nod.

He sighs. "Yeah, that's fine . . . But—" he looks at me again, "are you sure it's because of his condition, and not because you feel guilty?"

I stare blankly for many seconds. "How can I not feel guilty?"

He brings his head closer to mine. "Should I answer sincerely?"