Anathema

thirty two - purely panic

Cold. He was cold. And his whole body hurt. And it smelled weird. Like old people and plastic. No, old people and latex gloves and the grape medicine he used to take as a kid. He didn't like it.

He slowly blinked his eyes open and yawned, his jaw aching. Everything ached, an all-too-familiar side-effect of his migraine medicine. He let his eyes wander around the room, though his vision was blurry and he couldn't make out any definite details. Everything was whitish but warm, and there was something beeping softly in the corner. And someone was holding his hand. His mother.

"Momma?" he whispered, his voice raspy and shaking.

She shifted slightly as she woke up, and looked up at him with puffy eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. "Tyler," she said in relief. "You're awake. How are you?"

"Sore. Achy. Like over-used picture books."

She laughed slightly, scared and strained, and he frowned.

"It's not funny," he said.

"Of course not," she said quickly. "I'm sorry. I'm just happy you're awake. How's your migraine?"

Tyler thought for a minute. "Gone. I don't know how." He looked around the hospital room and shifted slightly, and then noticed that he had an IV in his right arm. He itched it absentmindedly and sighed. "I don't like it here."

"I know, baby, but we'll go home soon."

"What happened?"

"You had the worst migraine I've ever seen," his mother said softly, rubbing his hand with her thumb, a rather soothing feeling. "You collapsed on the floor and just screamed and screamed." She dropped her voice to a whisper. "I've never been more afraid for you in my life, and I thank God that we were able to get you here as soon as we did."

"Thank you, Momma," he said quietly.

She just gave him a sad smile, kind of like Josh, and squeezed his hand as a doctor came in.

"Hello, Tyler," he said, sitting down in a chair across from his bed. "How do you feel?"

"Better," he admitted. "Can I go home now?"

"Almost. I just need you to fill this out." He handed him two pieces of paper and a clipboard, and Tyler scanned them quickly.

"Mental health survey," he said in a monotone.

"Yes."

"But I'm fine. It's not that bad. I'm sure a ton of people have it worse than me."

His mother squeezed his hand. "Just fill it out, Tyler. And be honest."

If there was anything he wasn't, it was honest. Clancy had so generously pointed that out earlier. He cringed slightly and let his mother help him sit up, resting the clipboard on his lap. He skimmed the questions and answered them rather absentmindedly, circling mostly twos and threes out of the zero-to-three scale. When he was finished, he passed it to the doctor again, who totalled the numbers and frowned in concern.

"Tyler, your score is pretty high," he said. "It sounds pretty severe."

"I'm fine," he said, and he believed it.

His mother glanced frantically at him. "What do you suggest we do? He's already going to therapy once or twice a week."

Therapy. He didn't like how that sounded. He picked at the IV and wrinkled his nose as they talked.

"If it's this bad, I suggest we get him on some medication."

The doctor looked at his mother instead of him, as if he wasn't even in the room. That was irritating. It was his brain, anyway. He thought he should have a say. "I'm okay. I just need more migraine pills," he said, and they both looked at him in surprise.