Smoke And Mirrors

•Twenty-One//1•

That night, I slept on the couch—not wanting to touch what could be the last evidence of Jake being in my life.

The morning was groggy and slow, even though I wanted to be going 40 miles faster. I take my pain medication that was prescribed to me when discharged. I had to change my bandages as well—it was difficult considering I had to do my whole entire bicep with one weak ass, fractured wrist.
Once the agonizing task was done, I got dressed in something pretty. It gives my day some sort of meaning when dressing up, maybe he's just going to wake up and see me in a pretty dress—which will make his day of course.

Once inside the waiting room of the hospital I spoke to the front desk woman, an older lady—probably 56 or something of the sort.

"Here to see Jake Kiszka, and uh- I Brought flowers is that alright?" I hold up a small vase with a fresh assortment of flowers, brightly colored and green at the stems.

"Yes, of course!" She smiles, "Do you know the room number?"

"Yes, 214? Correct?"

"Indeed...also I heard it helps to talk to them—when they are out of it. Supposedly they can here you, and it helps them come back." She gave me some sympathy look she probably gave everyone.

"Note taken." I walk to the elevator, my flats seeming silent against the tile floor that was white with the rest of this death hole.

I knock before walking in, just in case he had awoken.
He hadn't.
His eyes were still closed, the bruise on his head darker than yesterday but the scraps look less irritated, still in casts and as stiff as a board.

"Jake? I uh- got you some flowers. I hope guys like flowers because I didn't know what else to get you...plus this room is rather bland, it needs color anyway," I place them on the windowsill—angling then the way I wanted.

After my speaking, the room fell silent with only the sound of his deep, slow breaths, and the beeping of his heart rate.
I turn to him, sitting next to his bed.

"I heard talking to you makes you come back, or wake up? I don't know. I feel stupid talking to you, it's like I'm talking to myself. I don't do that really—just when I'm drunk," I pause, "You know that."

I heard, in my own head, his voice bouncing around in my brain.
'Oh I know, prissy.'

I press my lips together and slouch back into the chair that was pulled tightly to his bedside, not knowing what to do.
I didn't want to talk.
There was nothing to talk about.

"Talking is pointless, no? Does this even work?" I huff, "I hope you hear me other wise I'll feel like a complete dumbass."

'You are a complete dumbass, you don't need me to tell you that.'
That's something along the lines of what he would say...at least that's what I want him to say.

What I wish he could say.