lostmyhead ( ✓ )

chapter three

Matty was awake. He was, he really was, but he just couldn't open his eyes. The lights were far too bright, and his head felt as if multiple knives had decided to poke about at his brain. He'd been lying there awhile. He could tell that by the way he felt his head disconnecting within itself. He could feel the blood pool in places it most certainly shouldn't have.

When his eyes did open, however, he was surprised to find himself in a white bed in the hospital - alone. There was a gray, uncomfortable-looking chair beside his bed, so he figured he hadn't been alone, but whoever had stayed with him wasn't there now.

"Hello?" He called out, voice hoarse as he attempted to sit up. Finding himself stuck with IV needles, he decided it'd just be better to stay put - even though he hated hospitals.

"Ah, Mr. Healy, you're awake. This is miraculous!" A red-haired man entered the room, body clad in a professional-looking doctor outfit; complete with the lab coat. The man quickly took notice of Matty's condition, and handed him the styrofoam cup of iced water that had been poured for him. He then grabbed a tissue, and dabbed at the curly haired boy's nose gently.

It was then that Matty noticed that his nose had been bleeding.

"How long've I been out?" Matty asked, eyebrow furrowed in worry.

"Oh, only a day, sir. Your friend's just gone off to the cafeteria, asked me to keep a watch on you. I'm Peyton. I know, what an unfortunate name for a man. My parents wanted a girl, but got me instead. Anyways, it's a miracle you're even alive, Mr. Healy." The doctor spoke, a grin across his perfect teeth.

Matty frowned. He'd been out an entire day? That would mean they missed a show in Wilmslow.

"What do you mean?" He asked, sipping cautiously at his water.

"I'm a head specialist, Mr. Healy. From what I've gathered in tests, you've got a brain hemorrhage. I don't know how you're alive. The records show that you've had this going on and off for quite some time. Any other person would suffer a hemorrhage and die within that day. Why is this taking you months? Is it even possible? Are you some pagan antichrist or something?" Peyton asked, genuinely shocked as to just how Matthew Healy was lying in a hospital bed before him.

"I don't know. It's rare. Nobody knows why I'm not dead, but- wait, you said I had a friend here. Please tell me you didn't tell them about the hemorrhage." Matty groaned.

"No, no, I didn't tell the lad. He wasn't thinking right, and I contemplated placing him under intensive care as well. He was really distraught by the sight of you unconscious. You took a hard fall off the stage, as I'll understand." Peyton said.

Matty's eyes widened.

"I fell off the bloody stage?" He exclaimed.

"Indeed. Right in front of all your fans. If I could predict anything as to just why you did black out, I'd say it was to do with sensory overload. I recommend you not partake in any shows for a while, Mr. Healy." The doctor stated solemnly. "It's bad for your health. And I know you don't want to let the fans down but, face it or not Mr. Healy,"

"Matty. Call me Matty." The curly haired boy interjected.

"Matty, you're going to die. There's no way to prevent it. Whatever's wrong with your head, we can't fix it. This band you're in, The 1975, you've gotta let it go."

"Let it go? I've worked twelve fucking years on this band, and I'm not letting it go. The 1975: Adam, Ross, George... They're my family. I can't just leave them because I'm gonna die. Music is my passion. Why would you tell a dying man to let go of his dreams? You should be encouraging him to pursue them, shouldn't you?" Matty was outraged, and Peyton took a step back in fear.