[COMPLETED]
❝Death is inevitable. It's a promise made to us at birth.❞
Arielle is a studious young woman striving to be a chef. Her life is full of going to class, reading textbooks, and hanging out with her friends, until she meets Zayn. Zayn's an...
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➳ ZAYN'S POV
"Can you remember anything about how you got here?" The nurse asks me, seeming hesitant. She asked me this question yesterday when I arrived in the hospital, and she asked me the exact same thing earlier this morning, but here she is, yet again. I try to adjust my position in the bed, but my arm feels a little sore and weak, so it's a struggle. My one arm is still in a sling, making it even more difficult to move, seeing as how I'm only able to use the one to lift my body up.
The doctor said I'd managed to sprain my wrist, and the pain made that evident. It's swollen and hurts whenever I move it, but it isn't an unbearable pain. He gave me the sling for both my sprained wrist, and the pain I'm feeling in my shoulder, informing me that whoever attacked me, probably stepped on my wrist and kicked my shoulder, which explains the pain I'm feeling in the entire limb. It's an annoying, persistent pain, but that's it. I'm lucky it isn't completely unbearable.
I had a hard time sleeping last night. The nurse gave me a shitty meal that my stomach didn't agree with, and I had a pounding headache all night, along with the upset stomach. It was impossible sleeping in this room that I don't recognize, where there's too much light and noise from the overabundance of beeping machines.
I sigh heavily before running a hand through my lack of hair. "No, I told you yesterday, the last thing I remember is hanging out with my friends." That's another thing I have to get used to—they shaved all my hair off. Doctors said when they picked me up in the ambulance, I was bleeding from a head wound and so they shaved my head to gain easy access to the source of the blood. Once again, lucky for me that it was only a cut and didn't require stitches, but now I'm missing my once lengthy hair. At least, that's how I remember it being. But according to what everyone's telling me, that was probably what my hair looked like months ago.
"And what were you doing?"
I look around the room that's been my home for the past day. It's small, with the disgusting reek of hospital. There are way too many windows on the one side of the wall, but ironically, the view is shitty anyways. My view consists of a smidgen of the city, and the majority of a building directly beside the hospital, which means I have absolutely nothing to do in here besides sketching on the newspaper they give me each morning.
Yesterday, I drew my car but eventually, I passed out and when I woke, the paper was suddenly gone, and I imagine that the fucking nurse probably tossed it out. I was left with watching shitty reruns on television, but the only thing on TV during the day is fucking soap operas so I just stared out the window, wishing I was outside smoking or driving—literally doing something other than sitting in this damn bed.
"We were playing poker. I took some girl home and fucked her," I purposefully say the last part to disgust the nurse, and I'm pleased when I see her face twist in repugnance. She's been making jabs here and there for the last couple days—shit about my tattoos, my friends, piercings, the incident itself—clearly judgemental of who I am from what little she knows about me.
