Paper Wings and Missing Things

Part 12

The last time Jonas had woken up in the ER, he had expected to see policemen waiting by his bedside.

Instead, a nurse had walked through to set a cup of water next to him, flitting past like a ghost from the Underworld.

"Where is she?" he demanded, his voice throaty and hoarse, like the dry rustle of a rattlesnake. "Where is she?" He grabbed the nurse's sleeve.

The nurse cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Your parents...are in the next room."

"Please!" he half-shouted. He couldn't remember the last time he had used that word sincerely. "Where is she?"

The nurse turned her eyes away. "Please, sir," he whispered. "If you could just calm down..."

"Don't ask me to be calm!" he screamed, pushing back the sheets in the struggle to clamber out of bed. He swore loudly and swept the cup to the ground, watching in satisfaction as the water pooled across the floor. "Don't you tell me to calm down. If you don't show me where she is now, I—I swear I'll—"

The door opened. Jonas' dad stood on the threshold, flanked by several of the staff. "Jonas," he said, his voice thick with contempt. "Sit down. Now."

The nurse made an unobtrusive exit, while the rest of the staff watched warily from behind the partially ajar door. Jonas stood, scantily clad in his hospital gown, clumsy as he wobbled to prop himself up without standing on his right leg, which was encased in a cast. Breathing heavily, he faced his father, fighting the urge to bawl like a little child. "Please," he whimpered. "Where's Brianne?"

"Take a good look around you," his father said, sneering. He gestured to the bruises and scrapes mottling Jonas' arms and legs, the cast, the room in general. "All this—because of you. All this—because you're useless. Useless."

Jonas' breath, strangely quick and unsteady, hitched in his throat. "Please," he whispered. "Please."

He stumbled toward the door, reeling, but his father barred the way. For once, the spite disappeared from the older man's face, replaced by pure, bright hatred. "You killed her," he hissed. "Your fault. Your fault."

Jonas almost slipped and fell, catching at the wall for support. "Please," he sobbed. "No. No. Where is she? She can't be dead. She can't be—"

He fell back onto the floor. The room swam around him, transparent and watery. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion, as if he were at the bottom of the ocean. It had only been two days ago—no, yesterday, judging from the digital clock—that Brianne had stood on top of the world, angel-like, bowing, flushed from her dance performance. She had smiled at him. Smiled.

It had only been yesterday that they had swaggered from the auditorium, laughing and joking, as Jonas promised to take her for a ride she would never forget. A car he couldn't afford, a car that wasn't his own. The giddiness of the highway flashing past, the world moving around them, the world not stopping for them—

It had only been yesterday, but it was as unforgettable as he had promised.

The doctor hurried into the room, helping him back to bed, straining against Jonas' flailing limbs and jerking body. "Please, you need to rest, you need to go to sleep..."

"...Please wake up. Mr. Colway? Can you hear me?"

Jonas blinked up at a bright light buzzing above him, cold and sterile. His body felt numb, and the ceiling was swimming in a pool of blinding white. It was 4:40 again, and he was waiting for the door to unlock. It was 4:40, and he could hear the water running in the sink below him.

"Mr. Colway?"

His body convulsed with a hacking cough, and he gagged, retching on dry air. His stomach was empty, but the motion made his body writhe in the effort to throw up again. He fought to get up, to push away the tangle of sweaty sheets.

A hand gripped his arm, pushing him back down again. He gasped for breath, half expecting to be submerged in water, but a face loomed above him, blurred and undefined. "It's alright, Mr. Colway. You're alright."

Jonas tried to speak, but his throat was burning and raw, and his mouth tasted like day-old chicken and rice from the prison cafeteria. "I'm sorry..."

A glass of water rested against his lips, and he swallowed gratefully. He gulped it down until the rim was pried from his mouth and lifted away. "Not too fast...you'll make yourself sick again."

"Please...I'm alive...am I?"

"Yes." The voice was firm and calm. "You're alive. That girl saved your life."

"That...girl?" It was too much to hope for, but Brianne was curled in the chair opposite him again. Her eyes were dark and glistening, and she ran her fingers through her long, curly blonde hair. He blinked jerkily, and now Brianne resolved into a girl with bony arms and legs, dark hair, and sharp eyes half-hidden behind square lenses.

For a moment, confusion settled across his face, then he sank back into the bed. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "Brianne? I'm sorry."