The Death of Me

Chapter One.

Renae

I'm not much compared to others. Well, not in the sense of being not well. Not being well is my specialty. See, nobody's ever told me I wasn't enough. At least not straight up. But I can read between the lines very well. If I disappeared, a lot of people would notice. A lot. But not one person would care. There's a difference. I realized that and I accepted it. That's how I've ended up in here, in this very situation I wished wouldn't had happened. A situation I know that could've been avoided if I had just stayed still. If I had just laid there and not picked up the phone. If I hadn't dialed 9-1-1. If I stuck to what I decided to do. But I didn't, and now I'm in the back of an ambulance, headed to the hospital, awaiting the judgmental pity looks.

"You're going to be just fine," a paramedic says. "Stick with us."

I try to keep my eyes open, but I can't anymore and I'm fine with that. I let my eyelids just fall. I let my wanting take over me. I let myself leave. Or at least try to. These damn doctors won't let me. That guy wouldn't let me.

I can feel the tension in the room, when we get to the hospital and they bring me in. I know I've lost a lot of blood. When they removed the gauze from my arms and I felt the warmth start dripping down my hands, I thought that they were too late. They wouldn't be able to save me. And that was the last thought I had before I blacked out.

. . . . .

No. God damnit. No! I'm still here, in this bed, in this hospital. I don't want to open my eyes. If I do, I'll just see it's true that I'm still here. I can hear the monitor beeping, the whispers of judging doctors as they pass by my open door. God, I can't believe it didn't work. Groggily, I searched for the call button. I ran my hands over the sides of my bed. The fabric for these bedsheets and blankets is so itchy. They also suck at keeping you warm. Also, why do hospitals have to be so cold all the time? My thoughts stop when I feel something cold, long, and hard on the right side of my bed. Gotcha. I pressed the call button.

A man answers, "whats going on?"

"Get me the hell out of here." I say sharply.

He sighs, "no can do." I here the line go blank. Bastard disconnected.

I'm about to yell as loud as possible when a doctor comes walking in with a crowd of younger doctors falling in behind him. Great, i'm a little practice puppet for the new kids. Just lovely. There's about six of them. Four guys, two girls. One of the girls is particularly tall. The other is a good height, she's got glasses which make her face look round though. One of the guys is whispering to one of the others. I can tell their judging me. The shortest guy is just a little taller than Glasses. Yeah, thats what I'm calling her. He's staring at the ground, the wall, the other doctors. Anywhere but me. And the last guy, the tallest out of the interns, was studying me. I watched his eyes roam over the bed and the outlines of my legs under the sheets. They struggles past my chest, of course, and his eyes met mine. He kept eye contact for a few seconds, establishing his confidence. I think I like him the most. His gaze moved to my wrists that were taped up and confined to the sides of me. I saw him swallow. Weak. He cracked at the sight of a suicide attempt. Still probably my favorite intern so far.

"Tayer, go," the doctor said.

I immediately froze. It was him. The bastard who wouldn't let me die. Great. Of course he was my main doctor. Of fucking course. I can't stand his voice. It's so annoyingly deep and monotone.

When will this end.