Rookie Chandler
I've been stuck in this damn cast for far too long, in this bed for too much longer. Every time I wake up, though, Will is always there. By my side. He seems to always be asleep when I wake up, but he never once left my side.
Feeling bored, I decided to poke the bear. The criminal who sleeps beside me on a chair every night.
"Hey. Uh, Will?" I hesitated to speak to him in his sleepy manner. "Willl?" I dragged out his name. "Wake up!" I shouted a little louder than I intended. It got him to wake up—he jolted awake in that chair, gripping onto the arms of it as his eyes shot wide open.
"Jesus, little C. You scared me. You alright?" He said in a sleepy tone. His morning voice was very deep and raspy, more than it already is. His eyes and breathing started to calm down once he realized nothing was really wrong.
I shrug. "I'm bored," I say. Will stops rubbing his eyes, leaving the palm of his hand sit on one eye. "You woke me up because you're bored?" He asks with a chuckle. "Yes." Shamefully, I look down at the ground. I feel embarrassed now, waking Will up just because of boredom seems like a cruel thing now. I shouldn't care that much about it, like usual, but I do.
"Hey, you know what? It's your last day out of that cast. You can walk freely now. Hang on, let me get Bruce." Will said and then stood up. He patted my head before he walked away. I waited a few minutes before I heard footsteps walking towards the door, then Bruce came in, Will confidently following behind him.
"Howdy, Conrad!" Bruce chirped. Should I tell him orr—"His name is not Conrad, it's Rookie!" Will snarled at him, interrupting my thought process. Guess we had the same idea. "Whatever." Bruce waved Will off. "It's time to get this smelly thing off ya. Vincent, can you get the knife? We're doing this the hobo way." Hobo way? Vincent?
I made a mental note to ask Will about that later.
"Whatever," Will says unamused.
"So. Rooks, is it?" Bruce asks me. "Only Will can call me that. You can stick with Rookie, if you even deserve that." I replied to his snarky ass. "Cocky one, are you? I suppose since Vincent can call you Rooks, why can't you call him his actual name? Unless you had no idea, that is." He smirked at me. He has this creepy vibe to him that is probably way worse than those accusers we're dealing with.
"I don't know, thanks. I rather Will tell me that on his own rather than some hippy street doctor, actually," I tell him. He smirks again as he stands in front of my bed, his hands gripping onto the railing. I gulp, feeling an unsettling feeling approaching in my stomach.
"Got it." Will arrives. He holds up the knife as he sways it around in the air. "Thank you, Vincent." I rolled my eyes, knowing that whatever Bruce is doing is probably just rubbing in the fact I don't know Will's history.
Now that pisses me off.
"You're welcome? Why are you being so weird around Rooks?" Will eventually asks Bruce. "Me? Weird? No." Bruce scoffed. "Whatever." Will looks over at me as he crosses his arms, a knowing look on his face. He was asking me what the fuck was going on with that facial expression of his. I shrugged, not knowing what to tell him.
That conversation was for later.
"Alright, champ! Time to get this bitch off," Bruce says. He grabs the knife from Will—it was a literal kitchen knife—and starts to cut my cast. I keep my gaze on the knife as Bruce slowly cuts it. I can feel Will staring fire blazing glares at Bruce's head.
He finally finishes cutting my cast off—the smell is awful. Will is still glaring daggers at Bruce as he puts the knife down on the table with a big shit-eating grin plastered on his face. "All done, little C." He announced.
"You call him that one more fucking time and I'll have your favourite fucking street dog after your ass!" Will threatens Bruce, his tone cold as ice. He has him pinned against the wall while gripping the collar of his shirt—his muscles are really popping out through his shirt at how angry he is with Bruce. My eyes are widened in fear with how quick this happened.
And then everything went black.
YOU ARE READING
The look behind those tired eyes
Historical Fiction"It's the look behind those tired eyes, Chandler. They tell a story not many could comprehend. Not a lot of people in your position are able to speak up about their mental health as much as you, you talking about it is a great thing!" "The only good...
