Scheme Girl

You Obviously Aren't Doing It Right If You End Up In Hospital

"We need tae get her to hospital!"

Well, that isn't the best thing to hear when one regains consciousness after a beating...or ever, really, I think hazily.

"Aye, and what do we do when she freaks out in the hospital and ends up having a heart attack?" How did Dallas get into my house?!

"Then she'll be in the best place!" Dougie argues; okay, who let them in?  Did I?

"Why don't you ask her?" I ask weakly as I try to sit up; I feel like I've been rammed by a fucking bull...

"Mairi!" Dougie exclaims, relief obvious on his face.  Did I do something?  I'm pretty sure I just opened my eyes.  Is that a magic trick now?  If it is, just call me a magician!

"Yup...I've been Mairi for a good few years." I yawn, wincing as my jaw cracks loudly and my ribs burn.  Is it possible to not breathe and stay alive?  I hope it is; my lungs are burning.

"What happened, Mairi?" Dougie demands as his eyes dart around my face.

"Well, first I was born and then my mam took me home from the hospital an-"

"You know what he meant, Mairi." Dallas interrupts my timeline quietly and I stare up at him, trying to get my bearings.  Why are people always so curious about bruises?  They aren't exactly amazing things; they're just colours on your skin from getting clattered about!  People are just so nosy!

"Fight." I shrug, hoping to Hobnick that they don't ask any further.  If they were good friends, they'd just leave it at that and pretend to believe my lie!

"With your dad?" Dougie guesses, raising an eyebrow at me.  The swine!

"Does it matter?" I snap defensively; a fight's a fight, I fail to see how who it was with matters.

"No," Dougie sighs, glancing around for any signs of what happened.  Why do my friends seem so fussed about who I've been fighting with?  A fight's a fight.

"I don't feel well," I mumble as everything starts to shake around me.  I stumble into the bathroom and collapse around the toilet, my ribs searing as I retch.  Why must all of my insides be connected?  I could handle my aching ribs just fine if they didn't hurt when I breathe, or when I stand, or when I sit, or when I'm coughing up all my food.

I just need all of me to be disconnected from my ribs.  I think I can manage that...with pliers or something.  Or a hell of a lot of drugs.  Except I'm clean now, so I don't think that would be my most shining idea.

"You should go to hospital, Mairi." Dallas says, almost making me jump out of my skin in the process.  I think I need to get a big sign that flashes over my head that just says 'do not sneak up on me' to stop moments like this occurring with the regularity that they seem to.  “You look like you’re gonnae die.” He adds helpfully.

“Thanks, Dallas; that was incredibly motivational.” I mutter as I grab some toilet paper and wipe my mouth before flushing everything down the toilet.  From the silent reaction in the house, I’m assuming that dad’s gone back to the pub.  I don’t care if he’s down the pub; it means he isn’t here to tell me to toughen up. 

To be honest, most of my memories of my dad right from my childhood revolve around the pub in one way or another.  The first memory is when I was a wee girl and my dad took me to the town and brought me a book, and then I’d sit at the bar in a spinning bar stool whilst he got steadily more drunk with friends that weren’t especially child friendly.  By the time dad had decided it was time to go, I had finished the book and started it again.