Acquainted ⇒ Brett Talbot

VIII. Wendigo

We eventually come to the conclusion that Brett is unfit for driving considering his monumental blood loss. I apologise about ten more times as we make our way out of the apartment building. Each time, Brett dismisses it as nothing. Even so, he has to lean on me as we walk to his car. His height makes it hard for me to support him correctly and the muscle mass of his body makes it a treacherous walk.

The point where the stake went in has healed thanks to Brett's generous blood donation. Brett's puncture wounds from my fangs weren't fatal, thankfully, and they healed in a matter of seconds. The only problem is that his blood hasn't replenished yet and he's still feeling light headed.

"My keys are in my jeans pocket," he mutters. His appearance is becoming increasingly worrying. His skin has a distinct pallor to it and sweat beads on his forehead. When he blinks, his eyes droop for a few seconds and he wavers slightly on the spot.

I reach into his jeans pocket, digging around until my fingers brush the cool metal of his keys. I scoop them out and unlock the car. I lower Brett into the passenger's seat. He goes limp when he hits the seat, leaning his head against the back of the seat. His lips are slightly parted and his eyes are barely staying open.

I brush his hair, which is uncharacteristically limp and unstyled, away from his forehead. "Brett," I hiss. "Stay with me."

His eyes flutter open and he smiles weakly. "I'm so tired," he murmurs. His head lolls back onto the seat.

"I know but you need to stay with me, Brett," I say. I lightly pat his cheek with the flat of my hand. He tries again to keep his eyes open, but they barely stay like that for a second. I eventually decide that I should probably focus on getting him to the hospital.

I have no idea where the nearest hospital is and Beacon Hills is an entirely new place for me. I search Beacon Hills Hospital in the GPS and try to navigate the streets of Beacon Hills. The streets are dark and difficult to follow. All the while, Brett sits in the seat next to me, limp and occasionally letting out a grunt.

I eventually find my way to Beacon Hills Hospital and park the car as close as I can to the entrance. I haul Brett out and half-drag him across the sidewalk to the front door of the hospital. I shoulder the glass door open and pull him in after me. The place seems to be in a state of chaos. Doctors rush to and fro between rooms and down the halls. I stop the first doctor I see.

"Excuse me," I say. "I need help. He's lost a lot of blood."

The doctor looks over his shoulder and stops another woman. "Melissa, could you please help this boy? His friend said he's lost a lot of blood."

Melissa is a woman of about forty who has nice bone structure and curly black hair. She wears a blue nurse's uniform with the badge of Beacon Hills Hospital in the corner of the shirt. Her eyes pass over the dried blood on his arm and she takes him away.

"I'll come find you after I assess his injuries, sweetheart," Melissa says. "You can come visit him then." She gives me an encouraging smile that makes me feel a lot better.

I sit on the seats outside of Brett's room for a butt-numbing twenty minutes until I realise that I really need something to eat. And it's not vampire hunger, either; it's genuine I-really-need-some-chocolate hungry.

I get up and begin my trek to the nearest vending machine. I linger in front of it for a while. I suppose I could go for a healthy muesli bar of some sort. I shake my head and chuckle to myself. Like that's going to happen. I punch in the numbers for a Mars bar and wait patiently for it to fall. Clutching my chocolate bar in my hand like a talisman, I head back to Brett's room.

I'm about halfway there when I bump into someone. The boy is running at a speed which makes the collision a big one. The boy is a teenager with dark blonde hair and bright green eyes clad in hospital clothing. I suppose he would be attractive if it wasn't for the blood which coats his whole lower face. Alarm washes over me. Something about him doesn't seem right, doesn't seem human. He holds up his bloodied hands in a gesture that says 'sorry' and I catch sight of the wristband emblazoned with his name. Sean Walcott, it reads.