Threefold

7| letter

We rush to NCH Hospital with more anxiety than a mentally psychotic person. Well, maybe not Anya, but I'm losing my composure here. All of my sanity points are being blended into bits of uncertainty and trepidation.

I can't think properly and it's fucking with me in every way possible.

When we arrive at the front desk, there's a lady with a few physical problems that I'd love to identify, but I'm sure analyzing all her flaws will waste time that I can't get back. Her eyes are low with bags as she asks who we're looking for.

"James Schmidt. Shit, I mean," I forget my mother wouldn't allow us to condone his last name, "Compton. James Compton."

Anya glances at me, "You don't have your father's last name?"

I don't want to answer her, because I have too much apprehension. I want to know what is going on with my dad and she desires to know why I don't have my father's last name? Which is most important? "It's a long story," I reply without looking at her.

We sign in and the receptionist informs us that my father was rushed to the ER and he's in room 804 on the eighth floor. I have an urge to give the fair-skinned lady a gross facial expression, because we're fully aware that he was rushed to the ER. That clearly is the reason we are standing directly in front of her. People really need to think before speaking.

Anya grabs my hand as we swiftly wander to the elevators. Once one is available, everyone remaining in the elevator departs and it is fate that Anya and I are to be alone in the elevator. Her hand slips from mine.

I can already feel the questions she yearns to ask, but she's going to wait patiently until the doors close and we begin to ascend to the eighth floor.

As we travel, there isn't a single breath heard and that just makes me itch all over. Only thing about that itch, no matter how much it itches, it won't get relief.

We ascend past the third floor and Anya faces my direction.

"You told me you had your father's last name," she remarks, leaning on a wall of the elevator.

"Anya, my parents were never married. That is a long, tragic story that even I can't explain. I never told you that I did have his last name."

She throws her hands to her hips with anger, but it does not beckon me because it's the truth. I don't remember my mother and father ever being married. I remember them being together, but never informing us that they were married--or even shown it. No evidence of rings or photos of the event. There was no proof.

Anya goes noiseless and swings her kimono around her body tighter. That means she's pissed. I hear a little growl underneath her breath, but I don't think she is aware that I heard it clear. No matter what she does, I can't ignore how beautiful she is and how lucky I am to have her.

I'm just a bit nervous, that's all. Why won't she give me a break? I'm seeing my father after running away to another country at the age of nine. He hated me and I hated him; there's no need to sugar coat anything.

When we finally arrive on the eighth floor, after a few stops onto prior floors, she and I rush to find the correct room. The nurses grin and reveal how much they either adore their job or loathe it. A smile for love or a smile for help.

I find that so humorous.

"This is it," Anya points out the room as we both stand abut the wooden door with the number 804 in a box to the left of it.

I see, I answer internally. I begin to feel an endless amount of emotions that I thought I had gotten rid of when I was a kid. They have returned and have much more intensity--much more depth.