Smoke And Mirrors

•Twenty•

I wake up, a steady beeping sound coming from my right, and a nurse tending to the cords and wires that were hooked into to me.

"Wha-" I try to sit up.

"Ma'am, it's okay," She gently presses on my shoulder, making me lay down, her voice easy in the ears.

"What happened?" I watch as she takes out the IV from my right arm.

"You got into an accident, you and that man got hit at by a car in the middle of an intersection."

"Jake! Where is Jake? I need to see him, where is he?"

"Ma'am I don't know, he's not my patient—you are." She puts a bandaid on the arm she removed the IV from.
"I'm going to run a few tests on you so we know you are good to be discharged okay?"

"Wait- there is nothing wrong with me?"

"X-ray's were perfect, just fractured wrist and scrapped up your arm pretty good." She writes things down on her clipboard.

I lift my left hand and see a brace with Velcro straps tightly fastened. My opposite arm was wrapped, all the way up my shoulder, my forearm with only a few scratches.
"Okay..."

She checks certain things to see if I was okay— like my pupil dilation for concussions and things of that sort. The whole entire time she was doing the tests all I can think is:

Where is Jake?
Why don't I remember coming into the hospital
Is he badly hurt?
Where is Jake?

Within the two hours I was discharged from the hospital. When I was told I could leave and head home, I turn to the desk—asking an odd question.

"Do you know if there is a Jacob Thomas Kiszka in this hospital? He would have been admitted yesterday."

The young girl at the front desk looks around, "Umm—I don't think so."

"You don't think so? Like he never got moved to the hospital?"

"I don't believe he came through."

He's dead
Oh god

Tears well in my eyes, "I hate to bother but are you sure? He has to be okay—I swear I was told he came in."

I man walks over, "Olivia—it's right on the computer for you, you don't have to remember—" He sighs before looking at me, "His name?"

"Jacob Thomas Kiszka. K-I-S-Z-K-A" I spelt it out so he didn't have to ask.

"Admitted yesterday from a car/motorcycle accident. He's in room 214." The doctor quickly walks off, in a rush.

I run to the elevator, the doors couldn't have closed slower. I press the '2' button three times.

"Come on, come on, come on." I hop on my feet, anxious.
Slowly I rise to the second floor. I run out and look around to see the numbers of doors.

200, 201, 202, 203

The number growing as the doors went right. I walked around, looking back and forth from the right and left side of the hallway, passing people as I walk—I felt like I stuck out...probably because I look like a patient still.