Sunflowers, Bees and Honey

VI

"You know, the whole concept of sunflowers, bees and honey is fascinating," she sips at her milkshake, sky eyes on the ceiling while she speaks to him, "Like a bee going to a sunflower to create some honey; other than the aesthetic, I think it's a very nice concept. Just haven't figured out the meaning behind it yet."

Later, if you asked James what happened subsequent to what the woman managed to say through her cries, he wouldn't be able to tell. His memory short-circuited through blurry images of questions regarding the name of the hospital, getting into the car and driving in a haze.

Chocolate tinted waves are pulled by tiny fingers into a messy, half-assed bun. "Or you'll what?" Clem challenges as she pushes her bangs out of her vision.

"I'll tickle you, that's what," he doesn't even look up from his coffee.

"News flash, princess! I'm not ticklish," triumph coats every word she utters, "Are you?"

Her smile is wide and wicked when he takes a beat too long to answer.

Dangerous, he knew that more than many; however, he couldn't bring himself to care as he sat on a hospital chair near her parents, a blonde Claire Beaulieu in her 40s and a bald Antony Beaulieu in his early 50s.

"We're playing 20 questions."

"No."

"Yes," she declares with finality, "we need to get to know each other better."

"Whoever said so?" He likes getting a rile out of her.

It works.

"I did," her back straightens defensively and he fights back a smile, "I'll go first: I'm a violinist and a painter, I love the color beige, I still watch Strawberry Shortcake-"

"You do realize that's not how this game works, right?"

"Shut up. As I was saying..."

Who were quite shocked to hear of his existence, exchanging indecipherable looks that he did not bother trying to interpret. After all, James threw psychology out of the window the moment he stopped trying to regulate his breathing on that porch.

There's a crease between her eyebrows as she bends over her notebook, back arched as she scavenges through her mind with what is probably the right synonym for the word she just scribbled a thousand times over.

'Rhythm,' James reads the word from the periphery of his vision right as a chromatic strand falls over her eyes. His hands ache with the craving of brushing it away, but all he does is let out, "Try harmony."

The soft smile she flashes him is almost enough to satisfy him.

He waits.

Laughter filters its way to his ear as he swerves the car to a sharp right once more. Flashes of neon lights temporarily blurry his vision before re-accommodating. Hands on his shoulder telling him to go faster, to go left this time...

And waits...

Blinding white. Partial deafness. Or not. Screams. Stop, they hyperventilate, stop. Sharp jerky movements. Belt sucking the oxygen out of his lungs, slicing his ribs. Hands letting go off his shoulder abruptly.

...and waits...

Paramedics swarm the area. Sirens wail and screech. A wet sensation making its way through his hair and down his face. A night sky devoid of stars.

The evening fasts-forward and he's calling his roommate to tell him that he's not coming to class tomorrow, when a tall, middle-aged doctor in green scrubs finally makes his way out of the room.

James hangs up on Ben without a heartbeat missed.

Breath, breath, breath, breath, breathe...

"She's stable."

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A.N:
Italics + Underlined = flashbacks