The Bitter Tears Of Bobby Blue

Prologue

Don't ask me why I'm writing this. Don't ask me why I'm giving this experience the power to haunt me forever. All I know is that I want it to.

I suppose I should start from the first time I knew I could feel her. She was always there even when she wasn't, even when I couldn't see her

It felt like I was retreating into myself. Like when you singe hair and it shies away from flame. Or like that bug that curls into itself. Like I was going to implode.

Except I wasn't really moving at all.

"He's unresponsive! Crank it up to 400! Come on!"

At the same time it felt like someone was twisting my whole body. My limbs, my abdomen, my chest. Like God was trying to crush me in the palm of His hand- if you can believe that sort of thing, I certainly didn't before this point in my life.

And then I jerked awake.. sort of.

"We got a pulse!" 

"Alright people, we need him stable, get those blood bags."

I gasped. And I tried to tell them to help the little boy standing next to the ICU door first; part of his head was caved in, he was bleeding. They thought I was silently screaming in pain. So they pricked me with something. I could feel myself starting to panic and relax at the same time as it spread through my body, making my vision fuzzy.

But he smiled at me. My little brother was bleeding, probably in pain and smiling at me as he waved once. I took it as a good sign and let the wave of sleep engulf me. 

I wouldn't have closed my eyes if I'd known it'd be the last time. God I wish I hadn't.

Was it a sign? Forgiveness? I'm not sure.

But I like to think it was good.

***

My brother was dead, my parents were splitting up and the doctors couldn't get to the bottom of what was 'wrong' with me.

"We're not exactly sure what's caused them- most likely the stress, because your CT and MRI were clear." the male doctor said.

I looked at my grief stricken parents numbly. Everything smelt like bleach. Even I did. It felt bitter.

"We believe it may be a way for your brain to cope with...everything." the female doctor said.

Ah yes. Did I mention? My little brother died on impact in the car crash? The crash, that wasn't technically my fault...but it sure felt like it. And I'm sure my parents felt the same, though they'd never admit it.

But this isn't about what they thought. It's about what I thought. Or, rather, 'hallucinated'.

I hallucinated my dead brother in the trauma ward. Morbid, I know.

And though they don't say it, my doctors think I'm a complete wacko.

Jokes on them because I'd rather be a wackjob than a useless doctor. Haha.

My mother was crying now, reminded of what happened to her little boy, my mouth was getting dry and my father, an Attending Physician of general surgery himself, began ripping into the Junior Resident doctors about their incompetence and how he would've gotten to the bottom of this if he wasn't too close to the case and how he could literally trust no one in this hospital since the old COS (Chief Of Surgery) had retired. 

Dad's thing was always making any situation there was about himself- his old COS hadn't picked him for the position, had instead picked his colleague, an Orthopedic Attending.

The doctors looked at each other as my mother wept and my father removed his glasses, and asked, nay, commanded them to conduct an Angiogram. 

The doctors began to say something about cause and indication but he kept talking about how he couldn't lose another son. I closed my eyes because of the noise; it felt like someone was using my head as a knife stand.

I opened my eyes to yell at everyone to stop and saw a middle aged man in a grey suit and a cane stood staring sourly at everything and nothing at the foot of my bed. Except no one was acknowledging him.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I heard the heart monitor pick up the pace, though I refused to admit to myself I was looking at something no one else could. Everyone in the room looked at me, and I'm sure that my face was paler than a vampire's ass.

"Do you see him?" the first doctor looked in the general direction of my gaze.

Ah. So only I saw him.

I felt sick.

I stared transfixed at the man in grey, "It's not him." I said, referring to my recently deceased younger brother, Luke, "I don't know this man."

"His hallucinations are getting more vivid." the second doctor said to her male counterpart who began working a new theory. She seemed the more sympathetic of the two. Equally as inept though.

The grey man looked somewhat offended at the comment, though I suppose that was just his general look. He looked towards my doctors and opened his mouth, "Idiots."

I scoffed. I'll say.

So maybe I knew what my 'hallucinations' were, isn't that a good thing?

Wrong.

If I knew what they really were, I wasn't crazy. And if I wasn't crazy, I wouldn't be hallucinating. Which could only mean they were real people and only I could see them.

And I really would much rather be crazy.

I shushed the doctors arguing and focused on the stranger, "Can you help me?" I asked, my throat dry.

The sour man frowned, "Maybe." he said, "But they can't," he gestured to the medical duo, "If you know what's good for you, you'll leave before they make things worse."

My heart dropped.

"What is it?" doctor-number-2 asked urgently.

"He's calling you an idiot," I responded without much thinking.

One of them scoffed, like they thought I had insulted them (And I would've too, if I wasn't so stunned).

"That isn't much help." I grimaced at what seemed like an empty space to everyone else.

He came closer to me and gave me a scowl, well his expression was a perpetual scowl, but he scowled deeper, "You don't need help. I'm telling you to leave. These doctors are half wits, they don't know anything. And besides, there's nothing's wrong with you." he said.

I look towards the doctors, "There's nothing wrong with me." At this point I felt more like a telephone than a wacko. All I could do was relay the messages.

"Okay, well," doctor-number-one said like I was five, "you're hallucinating, obviously there's something going on." which was exactly what I was desperately trying to believe.

"No there isn't," the sour man said as if he was bored, combing through his salt and pepper beard with his hand, "tell them Charlie says there's nothing wrong with you, just like there was nothing wrong with me, stupid dimwits.'

I must have seem pained because the doctors asked what was happening.

My head throbbed but I repeated what he said, "Charlie says there's nothing wrong with me like there was nothing wrong with him."

I heard my mother sob and say something about post traumatic stress driving me mad.

But the doctors looked shocked and confused. That's when I was sure of it. That I wasn't crazy.

"And he says you're dimwits." Probably shouldn't have repeated that.

The female doctor choked on a sob as she rushed to leave the room.

I had never ever seen him before that moment. Charlie, I mean. At least, not while he was alive.

But my doctors had. Especially since he was their previous case.

I was discharged a day after.