Fifty Shades of Shoey

Chapter 3

Shane's POV:

Joey finally wakes up and I feel a huge weight lifted off not only my shoulders, but my entire fat, ugly body. I almost cry, but I can't. Not in front of him while he's conscious.
"Joey! Oh my god, my heart. I can finally breathe."
When he doesn't say anything back I begin to panic. What if blood stopped rushing to his brain and he can't speak or anything? Nah, that couldn't happen. He's probably just tired. That's all. After a really long moment of thoughtful silence I start to worry again.
"Uhh. Joey? Are you okay?"
Why does he look so lost? Oh god, he looks like Hellen Keller at a strip club, lost, confused and uncomfortable.
"What?," he asks, seeming uncoordinated.
Did he not hear me? Is he actually turning into Hellen Keller? Oh my god, oh my god. That's not even funny to think about.
"Do you want me to take you home? Or call Luke or Ingrid or someone?," I ask.
I only know so many of Joey's friends' names.
"Who? Are they my parents?," Joey asks.
He has to be joking. There's a slight serious edge to his tone that really throws me off.
"Who are you?"
No, no, no, no. Please tell me this is a joke. Please tell me you're kidding. Please tell me this is a god damn nightmare! I feel satan eating my heart and shitting it out in my mouth as he shoves his own shit up my ass.
"Joey, stop. You didn't hit your head. At least I think you didn't," I say sternly.
His laughter is literal music to my ears. And I'm talking Lizzy McGuire's theme song, here.
"Sorry I just blanked out for a moment. You're Shawn Dawson, right?"
Oh no he didn't. He just had to go and ruin it! Why do you have to go and make things so complicated?! He deserves a long ass lecture.
"Joseph Michael Graceffa-"
"That's my name right?," he interrupts me just as I start to lecture him.
"Why am I in here?"
Shit. Shit. Shit. I'm screwed. What do I say? What do I say? Maybe I can pretend like this never happened. Then he won't avoid and ignore me for the rest of my life like everyone else has. Hashtag my childhood. What am I talking about, hashtag my whole life!
"You're in here because...," I try to think fast.
Oh my god, why can't I think of anything?! Well I have to consider his injuries and the fact that he'll probably be sent to therapy if not a mental hospital.
"Well...a Rottweiler attacked you," I stupidly respond.
Dogs can scratch up your arms, right? And some kids get traumatized from dog attacks, right?
When he doesn't say anything I call the doctor on the intercom as instructed. And when I'm finished Joey finally decides to speak. His hand touches a hickey on his neck, damn it. I can't help the satisfaction I feel from leaving that obvious mark there, but it's also scary that my lie could be revealed.
"Ouch. Is that why I have this bruise on my neck?," Joey asks, touching the hickey that I made on his neck not to long ago.
This is really killing me. But I know that if I tell him, that'll cost us our friendship. I really don't want to ruin what we have.
"Uhh..yeah."
We sit in silence until the doctor with the weird last name comes in.
I should tell him to go along with the Rottweiler story.
"Umm, Dr. Gale-eye-fye-ficus?," I try to read his name tag but fail miserably.
"Galifiahkas," the doctor corrects me. Why don't you just change your name like I did? Oh right, because you're a successful doctor with a college degree that doesn't need to hide behind a stage name and a bunch of wigs and your mom's lipstick.
"Sorry. Can I speak to you for a minute?"
I walk outside with Dr. Like-it-even-matters-I'm-not ever-gonna-see-him-again-in-my-life.
"He doesn't remember what happened," I begin to explain.
"That's odd. He's most likely just lagging from the excessive pain killers," the doctor says.
"I didn't have the heart to tell him what he did to himself so I told him that a Rottweiler attached him."
"He'll figure it out eventually," he responds. Not the answer I was hoping for.
"Can you please just back off of the mental hospital and therapy and shi-stuff? He's not usually like this, he's never like this, actually. I don't know what came over him."
Actually, I do and it was me.
"Unfortunately due to his nearly successful suicide attempt..."
Even though I know he's alive, I feel like I'm being stabbed just by hearing those words.
"I am forced to at least send him to a weekly psychologist for a few months," the doctor finishes.
"He doesn't even need it!," I say too loudly.
"You never know, he may. What if he attempts this again?," Dr. Galifiahkas challenges.  
"He won't," I assure him confidently.
"How can you be so sure? Maybe a psychologist is just what he needs. Maybe he's suffering from chronic depression."
I scowl at the doctor and walk back in, I need the reassurance of his breathing, moving body.
"Okay, Joseph. So I'm going to need you to sign these papers and call one of these numbers before next Monday. I'll need you to pick up this prescription at your local pharmacy and see a psychologist at least once a week."
I want to punch that damn doctor in the face so bad. I can feel Joey's eyes on me but I can't bring myself to face him. He's probably figured it out already. I continue staring blankly at a wall as he signs papers and asks if it's okay to leave now. Damn it, I didn't even think to bring him a shirt. I'd give him mine but I'm pretty sure the world would rather see his bare skin than mine. When he realizes he has to walk out shirtless his face blushes a light pink and I feel like a jerk.
I look around at all the people in the crowded waiting room and find a lot of them staring at Joey. God dammit, Joey. Why do you have to be so god damn attractive? I step extremely close in front of him to try to hide his bare chest and stomach. As expected, no one tries to take our picture or anything. I guess there's not many Hollywood Psychopaths or Sick Fucks/Dawson Whores. If it weren't for the bandages and awkward tension between us, I would push his shirtless body against the wall and have my way with him. Fuck, Shane, stop thinking like that.