Roommates (Maxley)

Chapter 14

"Hey there, how are you feeling?" A nurse comes inside with a tray of fruits and juice, quietly setting it on the counter across from him. "You lost a lot of blood, buddy."

Yeah, it trailed behind him as he ran.

A machine beeps by his bedside, his wrist sore like his legs from rushing to the hospital. He should've called an ambulance, he shouldn't have listened to his thoughts, God this was humiliating. He couldn't even kill himself properly, how pathetic. He had someone managed to lock himself out of the bathroom after a shallow slit to the wrist, causing him to immediately panic. Now he was on a soft yet firm white mattress in a pale hospital gown. He pulls one of the pillows over his head with his free hand, the other wrapped in a heavy cast that keeps his arm glued to his side. His eyes flit to his wrist, the wound fresh and oozing when the nurse removes the temporary bandage to stitch it up. He bites down on his bottom lip, cursing himself not being able to go through with it. Coward, what a fucking coward. The pricks from the needle barely compare to the ache of his head, and the sweet juice is bitter on his tongue. All he can taste is metal, it's all he can smell despite being in a sterilized room. Soon he's stitched up, sitting up and filling out paperwork to be released. Stupid questions get stupid answers, every scale about his mental health too small to accurately measure the depth of it. Rating things one through three and checking boxes, what a waste of time.

"I've got some resources to give to you." A packet of numbers and local therapists are in her dainty hands, heart heavy at the sight of the young man. He looks like he's about the same age as her son, yet his eyes tell a different story. "Would you like me to read some of them out?"

"No, it's fine, don't want your time." He says while changing out of the hospital gown, pulling on his clothes with trembling hands. "Can I uh, use the phone to make a call?"

He had left his phone in the dorm, it wasn't exactly a priority when he was oozing red. He had tried to calm down before trying to end things, really, he turned his phone off but the notifications in his brain refused to mute. It felt as if the messages had moved to his mind to interrogate him, demanding explanations for what he never planned on publicly expressing.

"Of course." She tries not to stare at his scars but there's so many, not a single patch of clear skin on his arms. "I'll give you some privacy."

If only he had Max's number memorized instead of his father's.

"Good afternoon, you've reached the U. Elite Banking office. How can I help you." One of his father's mistresses answered, it's funny how he still recognizes her voice from when he was a child and she would join their family for dinner. "Hello?"

"Sorry, I...uh..."

"If this is a prank call-"

"No, no! It's not! It's Bradley." He fidgets with the phone cord, voice dropping. "Is...is Father there?"

He's given instructions he knows better than to disobey, though sitting outside a coffee shop with a bloody sleeve is a bit uncomfortable. People stare, some a bit too familiar so he turns away before they can notice him. If only he had called Max before doing all of this nonsense, Max was probably pissed with him. His fault, all of this, he's the one who chose that restaurant. He shouldn't have chosen somewhere so open, he shouldn't have kissed him, touched him- why did he even let himself fall for him knowing there was a chance of this? Fool, he's such a fool. His leg bounces beneath the table, bumping it until it's shaking like his hands when a jet black car slowly pulls up. He'd recognize his father's drivers anywhere, after all, it was the same car he had been thrown in when he was taken from his mother. Don't think about that, not right now. How is he going to explain this to his father? He'll be lectured, he knows that. It's his fault, he was being dramatic, he let himself get overwhelmed by the whispers and snickers that followed him everywhere. He slides into the car with cheeks slick from tears, fumbling with the seatbelt as he struggles to pull it on. Two bulky men are ahead of him in the front seats, giving him a silent nod that makes him shiver. Should he speak? Does he even deserve to? He decides to keep his mouth shut, eyes on his bandaged wrist. If he pulls his sweater sleeve down he can hide it, but the blood soaked through his sleeve still gives him away.