Dandelion

Recovering?

XX.XX.XXXX

Hey Journal.

I refuse to start these entries with a cheery-ass "Dear Diary," so that opening is going to have to be good enough. I know I said this was supposed to be a recovery journal, or whatever, so I guess I'm recovering?

I don't feel any different.

I haven't written anything new because nothing note-worthy has happened. The doctors say that's not how this is supposed to work, that I'm supposed to write in it every day about my feelings, or what have you. Nuh uh. Not gonna happen, docs. Sorry, but if you want a mush journal filled with a daily dose of sob stories, you're going to find yourself another guinea pig.

But anyway, I guess I'm recovering. They wouldn't be sending me home if I wasn't.

"Hey, Dandelion, you ready to go?"

I looked up at Alex as he came inside, swinging his truck's keys around his finger. I grinned at him, shifting my legs out of bed and shivering when my feet hit the tiled floor.

Alex frowned. "I don't think we have any clean clothes for you," he said, looking at my bare arms and legs. They were slowly turning from purple-ish blue to that gross, Dijon Mustard color that shows up when you've had a bruise for a long time. I swear if Alex starts calling me Mustard. . .

I felt a heavy weight settling on my shoulders, and when I looked up from my not-mustard-colored toes, I saw Alex draping his jacket around my shoulders.

"Sorry it isn't much," he said, scratching under the hem of his beanie. "Your legs will probably still be cold. It's pretty near freezing out there."

I scrunched up my nose, glancing out the window at the grey clouds that were starting to gather. Maybe it'll snow later. Who knows?

I stood up slowly, my legs shaking under my not-that-heavy body. Taking a trembling step toward Alex, my knees buckled. Before I found myself on the floor, Alex swooped his arms underneath mine and held me up. He scooped me up into his arms when I refused to sit in a wheelchair. He carried me out of the hospital and set me up in the pickup truck, shutting the door and going to the driver's side.

"Where are your parents?" I asked as he pulled out of the hospital parking lot.

"At our place," he said, not taking his eyes off the road. "I told them I'd take care of getting you home, but they insisted on doing something." He chuckled drily. "So I told them to go home first and make dinner, if they really wanted to help. They bickered back and forth for a few minutes about what they were going to make on their way out, but Mom eventually won the argument, I think, so we'll probably go home to an apartment that smells like chicken soup."

I made a noise of what I hoped came across as approval and appreciation, then fell silent and laid my head against the window, watching the trees spin by as we went down the road. Alex didn't say much, and he had the radio playing at a low enough volume that it was just background noise. I watched streetlights flash as we went by, the outside world starting to morph itself into familiar surroundings through the sparse flakes of snow that were beginning to float down from the heavens.

It struck me then, I was so close to winding up in heaven, or wherever people go when they die. I unintentionally let out a small whimper, biting my lip and pressing my forehead against the cold window. Alex patted my leg, since my hands were firmly between my thighs to keep warm.

"You okay?"

I nodded slowly, a few tears dripping off my nose. My glasses were starting to fog up, and I pulled them off my face in the same motion I used to dry my eyes. I was overwhelmed by a sense of. . . Actually, I don't have a good word for how I was feeling. It was a sort of, oh-my-God-I-really-could've-died, feeling that I hadn't gotten until now. Suddenly, a recovery journal didn't seem like such a bad idea.

Alex pulled into the parking lot of our apartment complex and helped me out of the truck.

"Do you think you can make it up the stairs?"

I nodded, took one step, nearly collapsed, then shook my head.

Alex picked me up again, carrying me up the stairs and stopping outside our apartment door, cursing under his breath.

"What's wrong?"

"My keys are in my back pocket. I can't open the door." I reached blindly for the pocket he'd indicated. He snorted. "I said pocket, Dandelion." He said with amusement. "Not my underwear."

I swatted his lower back, reaching into his back pocket and fishing out his keys. I found our apartment key easily enough, reaching over to unlock the door. Once the door was open, I slipped the keys into the pocket of Alex's jacket. We walked- well, he walked. I was carried- inside, and Alex sat me down on the couch. He had been right, when we were in the truck. He'd told me we would come home to an apartment that smelled like chicken noodle soup, and I could smell the broth as soon as we were through the door.

Alex's mom came out of the kitchen, handing me a steaming bowl of soup. I smiled at her wearily, leaning my head on Alex's shoulder when he sat beside me. "Thanks, Bree," I said as I delved into my bowl of soup.

Alex's father's name was Bob. He didn't talk much, and he preferred the company of just himself and his papers and his rocks to the company of anyone else. He was a tall guy, with a receding, curly hairline, and a little bit of a beer belly, even though I've never once seen him drink. He came over and patted me on the head, and I had to squint to see him well. I guess my glasses must've been broken. I'm not sure how I hadn't noticed their absence until then.

"Rock studies been good?"

He made an affirmatory noise in the back of his throat, pulling out a chair from the bar and sitting down with a bowl of his own.

There are few things in life like food made with love, and I could tell that Bree had poured her heart into this soup. Not literally, I hope, but still.

The four of us chatted for a little while until my eyelids started to droop. I guess Bree or Bob had motioned to Alex that I was falling asleep, because the next thing I was aware of was being in his arms and then being settled down in bed, the comforter pulled up to my chin.

Alex pressed a soft kiss to. . . some part of the side of my head. I'm not too sure where, exactly, because I was already drifting off.

"Sleep well, my Dandelion," he whispered, threading his fingers through my hair.

I plan to, Alex.

Unfortunately, things rarely go as I plan them. 

Author's Note: Hey, everyone!  I'm so sorry it's taken me so long to update!  I'll try to get another chapter up tonight to make up for it.  Catch you on the flip side! (Of the page!)