Clean Slate » a.i. au

One

        There were a thousand things that could have woken me up. For example; my bed is right next to a window that has got to be left ajar, because I don't recall hospital rooms being this cold. It's the middle of winter, yeah, but it's still not supposed to be this cold. Moving on – the annoying beeping sounds coming from more than just one EKG machine. The uncomfortable hospital bed. My dad's worried, annoyed and painfully loud voice as he spoke to any nurse or doctor that entered the shared room.

        But apparently, all that's taking to wake me up, is a single hair that's tickling my nose. My arms feel too heavy for lifting, so my only solution right now is to rub my face against my shoulder, or pillow, or anything that would end the agony.

        "Honestly, what does a man have to do to get someone's- wait. Lu- Lucy?" After that, all I hear are my dad's rushed footsteps, as he hurries toward my bed. I guess I haven't been that discreet while rubbing my face against the sheets. "Lucy?"

        With slight difficulty, I open my eyes; and I almost don't recognize the man standing right next to me. While he, on the other side, looks like he'd just won the lottery.

        "Oh my God," He beams down at me, "You're awake. Oh my God. Shit. Shit, okay. I'll be right back. Ashton, come sit next to her. Come on."

        I was just about to start trying to remember, and asking myself what the hell am I here for anyway, but the sound of that name is all I need to remember everything. Every single thing, that happened that night. And fuck, do I wish none of it happened.

        The beeping of the machine just next to my bed increases its pace – a lot – so I try to cover it up by coughing and sitting up. My dad's there to help me up, while he continues just standing at the foot of my bed, leaned against the wall, looking at me like he wishes that I'd never woken up.

        I can't really blame him if that's the case.

        "Ashton, come on," Dad repeats, and this time the said 20 year old reluctantly pushes himself off the wall, and starts dragging himself around to sit on one of the two chairs next to my bed. As expected, he sits on the one that's farther from my head. No hard feelings.

        "Alright, I'll be literally right back." The smile on my father's face could probably be compared to the one he had when I was born.

        When he leaves, it's just Ashton and I, not counting the other few people that are in my position. Although, it still feels like there's no one beside me; he's just sitting, picking at the cast on his right arm, which is signed by his friends Calum and Luke. Having met them more times than I can count, it doesn't surprise me that Calum's signature is in big, bright-colored letters, with a few swear words and all kinds of symbols here and there. And then there's Luke's, who only used a deep blue marker and wrote his name with a smiley next to it, followed by a short get-well-soon message, and a ya irresponsible drongo at the end of it.

        Ashton then switches to picking the bandage around his left wrist, which has his name on it – the fact that the name of his third bandmate isn't anywhere to be seen is making me a little nauseous. And if he didn't look weird while doing it, he would probably start picking at the bandage around his head – that looks a lot like the bandanas he loves wearing so much.

        God, I can't even begin to comprehend how much I've messed up our relationship. In some sick, twisted way, I'm happy that he'd gotten us in that accident that night – otherwise that would've surely been the last time I saw him. That's another thing; if it wasn't his fault that we're both here, in casts, and wrapped in meters worth of bandages, he wouldn't feel obligated to sit next to me.