Can You Keep A Secret?

Chapter One Hundred

           

-Brooklyn's POV-

            This was, hands down, the worst that I had ever felt, even rising above when I was dared to eat 15 slices of pizza, or when we all got sick during the Christmas tour. Blair had dragged me up and out of bed in the morning, and I hoped that the doctor's visit would be worth it – Right now, I'd give anything to be back wrapped up in my blankets instead of trying to get comfortable on one of the hard plastic chairs. Blair joked that you knew I was sick because I wasn't playing with my hair every five seconds, but I didn't have the energy to either laugh or be offended – I just wanted to sleep. Simply getting here had been a huge task, and it wore me out. I'd taken for granted how easy the stairs were when I was well – I'd had to pause every couple of seconds to make sure I didn't pass out.

            Once in the car, I'd confronted Blair with something that had been bothering me – "I thought that you hated me?"

            "Why would you think that?" He'd asked, shooting me a glance whilst he turned the blinker on.

            "Because of Stacey. And getting beat up. And being sick."

            "Brook," he had sighed, exasperated. "I don't hate you for those things. Half of that isn't your fault. I mean, not that I know of. I just don't want you to fuck yourself over with stupid decisions."

            "I'm sorry," I'd stated. And, I'd meant it – he'd been right all along.

            "Don't be. You're a good kid."

            We had spent the rest of the ride in silence, mostly because the scenery whipping by and the car hitting bumps was making me feel ill, and I was concentrating on not throwing up in his car. Once we'd made it to the parking lot, however, I'd lost my focus and vomited before I'd even reached the trash can.

            Blair had been prepared – He'd handed me a wet wipe to clean my mouth with, and then carried me to the waiting room. Now, my mouth still tasted sour as he filled out my information on a little clipboard, and we waited for my name to be called. I had just started to drift off again when he nudged me back awake, and we began the typical doctor's office routine – Being weighed, measured, and questioned by the nurse, before being left with the flimsy hospital gown and yet another wait.

            I was reluctant to put it on – I was cold enough with my long sleeved shirt and pants on – but Blair reminded me that I didn't have much of a choice in the matter. He turned away while I changed, but I needed his help to tie it in the back, which gave him a full view of the display that my body still was – Bruises that looked like dark pools of paint, a particularly bad cut that had made me cry out when Rye put rubbing alcohol on it, and the fact that the wounds spread out from the nape of my neck all the way down to my ankle, which was still a little tender.

            "Jesus Christ," he muttered, stepping back to get a better view.

            "Can you tie it, please?" I requested, shivering in just my socks and underwear.

            He finished the task, but continued to speak as he did so – "Seriously, Brooklyn, how did you get this bashed up?"

            And, maybe it would end up being a mistake – I didn't know – but I gave up on pretending that it didn't happen. Avoiding the fact that it had to do with Stacey, I told him the full story – The true story.           

            "You should've told me that right away, and I could've found the little fucker and kicked his ass," he said once I finished. I shrugged, looking at my legs dangling off of the side of the examining table. "You probably caught something from lying on that filthy floor. Think of all the germs in this place." He shuddered.

            "I'm sorry," I apologized again, wishing that, somehow, the fight had played out differently – Like, me making it an actual fight by defending myself, instead of just letting it be an attack.

            "These things happen," He said, as if it were normal, and then chuckled to himself. "To think," he said. "All of this time, you boys managed to mainly keep yourselves out of trouble, and now, three out of the five of you have ended up like this-" He gestured to the room – "In less than two months. Insane." He shook his head, a little in disbelief and a little behumored, before bursting out into big, gut wrenching laughter. I didn't join in, partly because I knew that it would hurt, and partly because I was afraid he was losing his mind.

            He was forced to get himself together when the doctor finally came in. He did all of the usual checks that you'd expect from a physical, but with the addition of shoving the little stick, reminiscent of one from a popsicle, down my throat, which made me gag. The only questions that he asked about the bruises were whether I got them before or after having gotten sick. He then conversed with Blair outside of the room, and I soaked in how miserable I felt. Once they came back in, he explained that I showed most of the symptoms for pneumonia, but that he was going to send me off for a chest x-ray, just to be sure.

            "So I'm not going to die?" I asked, coughing so hard that I was certain I'd end up dislodging one of my lungs.

            "No," He laughed, clapping his hands together. "If you do have pneumonia – and I'm fairly certain that you do – Just take the antibiotics prescribed, and you should start to feel better within two to three days. Getting plenty of rest and sleep and drinking lots of liquids won't hurt either. If, for some reason, your symptoms don't clear up, then check back in with me."

            I hoped that he was right and I'd feel better soon – I was certainly sick of being sick.