Glamping ~ Joel Dommett

Sirens

A/N: I have a nice short one for you all today, mainly because the next part is going to be EXPLOSIVE and this part needed to be a filler in preparation. So look out for the next chapter!

I've been given a course of antibiotics for my ear infection and am on lots of pain medication so I'm feeling very woozy and lightheaded, and what's funny is, right now I'm very awake but I know that in half an hour the medication will knock me out completely... So yeah... Currently waiting to be knocked out...

Enjoy!

Pulling my suede jacket over my shoulders, we trudge out of the venue, hand in hand, Joel grimacing slightly due to some bad stomach pain he has been experiencing all day.

He groans when he sees that our taxi is not in the bay. "You go back in. I'll ring for a taxi."

I go back inside the concert hall and wait by the merch stands. I say merch, it's very limited as we were just watching one of Joel's colleagues perform standup and his fans are predominantly middle aged couples wearing suit jackets and polished shoes, so the best item you can get is a mug with a cringe slogan plastered onto it.

The benches have all been stolen by the said middle aged couples who, to be perfectly honest, do not need a bench as much as a pregnant woman of eight months carrying twins. There. I said it.

I slide down the wall and sprawl my legs out in front of me, ignoring the numerous glares I get from the snooty old women with their stiff upper lips. I'm pregnant, leave me alone!

ran out of minutes, am going to use a phone box. x

I shake my head as I read Joel's text, remembering all the times I've told him to get a new contract with unlimited minutes, but does he ever listen to me? Hardly. Sometimes he might turn the television down slightly to hear me speak but I can tell none of it is going in. Men eh?

We had our first row last Thursday over ramen. Bloody ramen.

I wanted fish ramen but he bought chicken ramen instead and was I happy? No, I really wasn't.

Ever since it has been slightly tense.

Okay. Be quick. x

I reply shortly, feeling the glares intensify as a wave of audience members come striding past me, one particular elderly man muttering, "Women these days..." as he pointedly steps over my tired legs.

I'm tempted to stick up my middle finger and shout something sassy and rude back, but do not want some journalist to see me and write some shitty article about how I'm 'disrespectful to the elderly'. Instead, I ignore him, and scroll absentmindedly through my Instagram feed, unaware that I spend a good seven or eight minutes doing so.

"Shit!" I mutter, noticing that Joel hasn't texted me and he's been gone for fifteen minutes. Is fifteen minutes long enough to get a cab?

I stand up, but too quickly, and feel a surge of nausea pass over me. I reach out my hand and rest my body against the wall to steady myself, before exiting the venue and feeling the sweet relief of a cool breeze wash over me, but the relief is short lived when I hear the sirens. Loud sirens.

:-:-:-:

"Is he going to be alright?" I query nervously, fingers tapping the rim of my glass out of fear as the male nurse looks at me sympathetically, noticing my huge bump.

"Yes Miss Thomas, keyhole surgery is very common procedure here, nothing to worry about." He hands me a clipboard to sign in all my details with a reassuring smile. "Our surgeon has already performed three appendix removals today, and your partner's will probably not be his last."

I nod and gulp knowing the colour has drained from my face and that I probably look like a ghost who's eaten a few too many pork pies.

I sign my name roughly and then Joel's.

He collapsed in the telephone box and one of the audience members walking back to the carpark noticed him. Turns out, his appendix had ruptured a couple of hours before, which explains the intense pain he was feeling throughout the evening. The ambulance was quick and only twenty minutes after him being picked up from the pavement, he is in surgery, a surgery which supposedly only lasts a few minutes.

My stomach churns as a group of paramedics rush through the hospital, wheeling in a stretcher housing a man who's face is bloodied and knuckles raw. I feel sick. I hate hospitals.

My tummy aches as I pass back the clipboard, my saliva tasting all sticky and sweet like it does when I'm about to throw up, but I don't feel like I'm going to be sick, I just feel nauseous and lightheaded and-

"Miss Thomas are you okay?" The nurse crouches down to my level, his eyes concerned, biting his lip.

I don't answer, I don't need to.

The question is answered by the pool of water forming at my feet.