Crash Landing [✓]

03

Chapter Three | WILL YOU SPREAD YOUR LEGS FOR ME?

"Did we have to leave my Cadillac behind at the safe house?"

"Yes we did, sweetheart."

"What is this car called?"

"It's a Maserati, Ada."

"It's cute."

"Cute? You mean she's bloody sexy right?"

"I digress."

"Whatever. Are you seriously bringing that kitty cat along? She's kind of tabby and big isn't she? To be carrying around in your arms?"

"You did not just fat shame my baby! We don't know how long we'll be here for. I'm scared she'll die without me, we both have separation anxiety."

"Godamnit woman. Just hurry, alright? We have a tracking device to be rid of. Out we get."

He'd been reluctant to come here at first, but he knew there was nothing else he could do to save himself, to protect his whereabouts and identity. Milo knew this was the right way to make sure we were protected and he told me just as much as he sang his favourite Backstreet Boys song while I drove.

We had pulled up at the Amore Dale Hospital after hastily leaving Milo's safe-house, the walls and air smelling like disinfectant and stale blood. He had decided to have the bullet taken out, and after that was over, we were scheduled to leave the vicinity —to survive of course. And Milo had also agreed to tell me what was going on precisely, so there would be no surprises in the near future.

I was in a fresh set of clothes, after cleaning up with some help off Milo. I felt humiliated I'd choked and vomited so much. I didn't feel nearly as bad as I did for emptying my stomach on him as much as I did for ruining his floor.

But to my surprise he didn't snap at me, nor scold me. He rubbed my back and told me it'd be okay, considering I couldn't stop vomiting after the flashbacks of the murders that took place in his home.

I followed after his limping body, clad in baggy loungewear that still moulded his body and managed to make him look more modelesque than little old me, while simultaneously battling my internal monologue.

He entered into the pristine, yet archaic building —to be welcomed by the hospital corridors which were stuffy; the air under toned with bleach and anaesthetics. My stomach twisted in response to the various smells, not particularly liking the queasy feeling brewing within me.

The magnolia walls were scratched in places by the hundreds of trolleys that had collided with them. The cheap canvases with prints of inspiring scenes hung from them, and over the double doors, enormous blue plastic signs with the hospital's areas —motioning directions.

The familiarity of the surroundings made my skin crawl, I had been here a while ago for my med school internship and it was awkward knowing just how little pull I had, when no one batted an eyelid at me.