Stupid Little Blue Haired Boy (boyxboy)

twenty nine

should have chapter thirty up this weekend. almost done with it.

______________________________________________

"Just take it one step at a time. Don't you dare look up more than an inch."

I take my surroundings in slowly. But there's only so much floor I can take before I'm itching to catch a glimpse of over-washed hospital sheets.

"You'd better take it slow. There's nobody here to help you if you freak out. They'll probably just lock you up somewhere and then they'll never be any hope for you in getting out into the real world again."

I've got enough scars on my wrists to ensure it. I take another glance upwards, and catch the bedframe, with the sheets tucked in tightly around the edges. Another breath and I'm eyelevel with the metal rails at the foot of the bed.

"You're taking this too fast. Slow down a bit. Look back down or you'll start crying."

A tear leaks from the corner of my right eye and down my cheek. I'm already fucking crying. I don't think it can be worse than it already is.

"Watch your language. Slow down."

Fuck you, I tell the voice, and take small steps forward until I'm at the edge of the bed and Timmy's pale hand is just inches from mine.

He's hooked up to more tubes than his body appears to be able to take. There are IV's in three different places, and a pipe running under his nose and mask over his mouth. His skin is whiter than a sheet of paper, and I almost lose my legs at the sight. Sickly bruises rest under his eyes and in the creases of his elbows.

Shaking, I lower myself into the seat beside him and take his hand in mine. The surface is so cold, the only reason I know he's still alive is a steady beeping from the machine built into the wall. He even smaller than I remember. This isn't the Timmy once so full of life. This can't be him.

"I told you to take it slow. Look where you are now. You're about to lose your lunch."

The lunch I haven't eaten, but it's correct when I lean over and heave whatever was in my stomach into the garbage can resting on the floor. It reeks more of water than anything, but I tie the bag off to keep the scent from escaping into the room.

"Maybe the stench will wake him up."

If you had a face, I'd punch it. Fuck off. Now isn't the time for your offensive jokes. He's in a fucking coma.

Shit. Timmy's in a coma. I reach for the clipboard at the end of the bed and just about lose all the stomach acid as well with the two word diagnosis.

Overdose, Narcotics.

no.

No.

NO.

NonononononononononononoNO.

Nope.

NOPE.

No.

I lean over and throw up again into the empty bin. My throat burns with the acidity, but I can't seem to stop. Between lurches I wipe the snot from my face and try not to choke on the tears.

What happened to ruin something so beautiful?

There's a soft knock on the door and I ram my head into the bottom of the bed as I attempt to straighten up. Timmy's heart monitor goes wild.

"Damian?" a female voice calls in, "are you alright in there? Can I come in?"

I take his hand in mine again for courage and watch as the beeping calms down almost instantly. He can't be too far gone if his body is still responding to touch. "Yeah," I say, and my voice is raspy and on the edge of breaking down. It gives away that I'm as destroyed as I look.