Kamber

Chapter 8

I wake up when there is light flooding in through the blinds.

A woman stands at the far end of the room with her back to me. She has long brown hair that falls nearly to her waist in simple golden curls, and suddenly I am so certain that it’s Amber that I almost scream-

- Amber.

- The car.

- The dark.

Oh my god.

 XxX

They release me not long after I wake up once they’ve finished looking in my eyes and checking the stitches on my cheek, which serve as my only battle wound. I almost feel ashamed of how unscathed I am when I know that Amber is somewhere else, certainly far worse off than I am, since they tell me she won’t be released today; not for a while.

I go out to the waiting room instead of leaving and look around for a place to camp out for who knows how long until Amber can walk out here to meet me, but there isn’t a single chair or inch of floor space available. It takes me several overstimulated moments to realize that all of these people- or at least most of them- are West Fairgrove students.

A hush falls over them when they see me.

I remain still and let them wash over me like a tide, offering me hugs and condolences and, some, even money, though I can’t recall anything that I say in return to any of them.

“Charlie,” someone calls.

I look up, hungry for the sight of Amber, and I am rewarded; it’s her.

Suddenly finding myself filled with energy, I shove through the crowd and make my way to the woman standing beside the front desk, but then it isn’t her. Not really. It’s Amber’s mother. Their resemblance is unbearable.

“Do you want to see her?” She asks me.

I must reply, because soon I am being led by her into the ICU as she convinces the nurse that I am Amber’s brother (immediate family being the only candidates for visitors), though again I don’t remember hearing myself.

When Amber’s mother leaves me at the door that the nurse has unlocked for us, I almost don’t recognize her. This is not the Amber of that breathtaking yellow gown she wore only last night, nor the Amber or perfect smooth skin, nor the Amber of an a million watt smile. No. This is an Amber I do not know, have never seen. This is the Amber of more cuts than flesh and more gauze than hair. The Amber of closed eyes and a broken body.

“Is she…” I can’t bear to say the last word aloud, the only word on my mind.

“No,” Amber’s mother responds, making me aware of the fact that I’ve actually spoken and heard myself. “She’s in an induced coma.”

My god.

“I’ll be just outside. You take your time.”

And I do.

I hold her hand around the clip attached to her middle finger that connects back to a machine and I press my forehead against the palm.

“Amber, honey, I’m so sorry,” I begin. I go on to tell her how it was all my fault, and if she could hear me, I know she wouldn’t have been able to deny me of that. I tell her how I am the one who deserves to be on that bed, not her. I tell her that as soon as she wakes up I’ll let her yell at me and that I’ll relish every moment of it. I tell her that if she wants to hate for it, which she should, that I’d let her. I’d let her walk away, cursing into the wind, because I’d deserve that too. I tell her about a million other things I’d deserve, like having been the one on the side of the car to be hit instead of her. But in between telling her each of these things I tell her I love her.

“I love you, and I deserve all of your pain. I love you, and I deserve to have died for my stupidity. I love you, and I deserve-” and on and on until I can’t speak through the tremors in my voice usurped by my violent crying.

I must’ve been loud, because when I am left with only my body-wracking sobs of guilt, Amber’s mom comes in and pries my hands away from her daughter’s, wrapping them in her own as she cries with me. Like me, she repeats a mantra of her own. Over and over again she whispers “I know you do I know you do I know you do.”

She knows I love Amber.

She knows I deserve all of those things I said.