Alive // Jeff Atkins

2. Rosy + Carl

Jeff

I stared at the sky, counting the stars as a whirlwind of paramedics and police officers swarmed the scene of the accident.

I was lying on one of those stretchers, the kind that you see in the movies where there's some sort of dramatic death.

They said it was my fault, the accident.  They said I was drunk driving and endangered my own life as well as the lives of other drivers and passengers.  I wasn't drunk, I just had to pee really badly.

I guess they just assumed I was under the influence because of the smashed beer covering the floor of my car.  And I'm not saying I didn't have any alcohol that night, but I sure as hell wasn't drunk.

My head lolled to the side, and I saw Clay talking with some officers.  He kept glancing at me with worry and concern.  I wanted to walk over and smack the back of his head and tell him, "Don't be such a party pooper, Clay!  I'm not dead, that girl's not dead, so what's there to worry about?  Go back to the party and find Hannah!"

And, I mean, I totally could, you know, if I wasn't lying half dead on a stretcher. 

The girl from the other car was being lifted and placed onto a stretcher identical to mine.  Her hair was matted with blood, and a large gash ran across one of her arms.  Dried blood was smothered across the left side of her face, and fresh blood dripped from the wound on her arm down to the pavement below.  Gross.

Aside from her...bloody situation, she looked pretty decent.  Black hair and a short stature.  Her lips were full and pale, and she had a button nose.  I couldn't see her eyes because she was unconscious, but the earlier vision of her brown eyes was still etched in my mind.  I wouldn't say she was drop dead gorgeous, but she was pretty enough to still have boys falling at her feet left and right.

My attention was diverted back to the pain in my head as a paramedic pushed the stretcher into an ambulance, jolting my body suddenly.  I groaned as the blinding white light in the ambulance made my head pound as if someone was beating my brains in with a baseball bat. 

"Shit," I muttered under my breath.

"Sorry, kid," an overweight, balding man said.  "We're taking you to the hospital, and we'll have you fixed up in no time at all."

He leaned back against the side of the ambulance and placed his pudgy hands behind his head, closing his eyes and relaxing.  I wanted to roll my eyes at his actions, but hundreds of bullets were already shooting through my head, and moving my eyeballs would be too much for me to handle.

I heard Clay clamor into the ambulance awkwardly as he tripped over a step.  Unfortunately, he used my body as a break pad, putting all of his weight on my chest.  I let out a wheeze and my eyes almost bugged out of my head.  The pain was excruciating, and dark spots danced through my vision.

"Huh?  Oh, whoops," Clay said, removing his hands from my chest.  "I, uh, didn't mean to - nevermind.  Sorry."

Clay sat down across from the paramedic, who had fallen asleep and was snoring loudly.  The doors were slammed shut, and we were soon on our merry way down to the hospital.

As soon as we pulled into the parking lot, the large doors in the back of the ambulance swung open, and the sleeping paramedic shot up in his seat.

"Hey, Carl, I hope you weren't dozing off during your shift this time," a female voice scolded disapprovingly.

"Nah, Rosy, I've been watching this drunk delinquent the whole time," Carl assured, lying straight through his teeth.

He pushed me out of the ambulance with Clay following suit.

"Wow, he doesn't look too good.  He'll need some stitches for sure," Rosy commented.

"Yeah, he's banged up pretty badly.  Maybe got a broken arm."

No!  I'm completely fine.  Baseball season starts in the spring, but training starts in two weeks.  There is absolutely no way in hell that I can have a broken arm.

Rosy and Carl wheeled me into a hospital room and carefully maneuvered me onto the bed that was  placed in the center of the room. 

"Don't worry, we'll put you under anesthesia for this," Rosy said, shooting me a fake smile.  "We'll stitch you up and put a cast on that broken arm of yours, alright?"

"But -"

"No "buts," mister.  Don't worry, you're drunk, so you won't even notice," Rosy said before shoving a breathing mask over my mouth.

Jesus Christ, I'm not even drunk.