Figuring You Out

Chapter Thirty- Eight

"I'll see you later," I say, turning him discreetly behind our building yet again.

"Can't wait," he replies, giving me a brief kiss, "Mine for six?"

"Ok," I agree, leaning down for another kiss which he grants. We split and I begin walking down the opposite road. I plug my headphones in and begin listening to the Arctic Monkeys as I notice a figure behind me being shadowed on the graffitied brick wall. I don't think anything of it and continue bopping my head to I Bet You Look Good on the Dance Floor.

I turn a corner, my eyes concentrated on the cracked pavement below me when a clothed hand smothers my mouth and a dull pain collides with my stomach. I jolt over winded by agony as my arms lose tension and my legs give out under me. My chewed nails rip into the assailants skin in an effort to break him from the overpowering hold he had on me when another cold kick is cramped to my side and my whole being twists unnaturally in a concave twist-up. My jaw bites down on my blood-soaked tongue as another shot hits my eye and another thick boot smashes the back of my head with a finalising crunch. 

                                                               ---------------------------

My eyes squint as a whitening light pierces my eyes and I become aware that I am strapped in by clean sheets and a dull ache spreading all over my body. I groan and try to sit up only to be disturbed by my Dads voice and sudden yet soft grip on my upper arm.

"Olly, Olly, its dad," he assures, as I still gaze around the room trying to ground myself from the sky high cloud of pain, "Olly, talk to me," he tries, I focus my vision back on my father who was still wearing his suit and waistcoat. I swallow thickly and try to muster a response but I'm trapped I can't talk. "Please, just tell me you're ok,"

I open and close my mouth like a lost child and my eyes dart desperately trying to tell him that this wasn't right. He takes my hand in his giant one and I can already feel the tears in the back of my eyes, "Just squeeze my hand, even just a little," he asks, I urge my hands to break his hand if I can and I think I do by his reaction. Tears are streaming down his face and past the massive grin onto his loosened tie, "Well done, good boy," he laughs, squeezing my own hand and then crashing his own giant stature onto me in an engulfing hug. That's the moment. The moment I break and let everything fall to pieces, in my fathers arms. I can feel the cascade of my own tears leak onto my fathers shirt through the stinging from what I presume were cuts on my face. My Dad curses and grips my shoulders tighter, as my dulling body shakes with fear. Then it hits me.

Red.

I swallow thickly and force myself to speak, "Red....Is Red ok?"

"Yeah, I think so," Dad replies, rather confused, "He's fine. He wasn't with you. He's fine,"

I take a deep breath and sit back, while my Dad casts a hand through my hair but it only causes a surge of pain to charge through my brain. I wince and he instantly removes his hand as a nurse with dark hair scrapped back into a ponytail, "Oliver, how are we, sweetie?"

"Sore," I reply, she gives a gentle smile and removes a clipboard from the foot of my bed and checks the watch clipped to her pocket.

"We are going to send you for an MRI just to be safe and then the police will want to speak to you," she explains, I start to nod then realise that was a mistake so just hum out an agreed response. My dad steps out of the room with his phone pressed to his ear and mouthing it was Mum, I sit unresponsive for a minute as the nurse checks this clear bag hanging above me. Everything is sore but in a numb kind of way and it scares me. I take the opportunity to take in my surroundings, it was pretty dull by all accounts and a paper curtain acted as my divider from me and other sick patients, there was a small cabinet at the side of me that hosted Dad's dumped leather laptop bag that was spilling with loose papers of his latest script. I peer down and feel the itching fabric of mass produced hospital gowns on me but after a quick flurry of panic and embarrassment I am relieved to know my boxers were safely on despite them being surrounded by blotches of bruises on my upper thighs, half from rugby and half from whatever the hell happened however long ago. With a groan I turn my head behind me to a wall that had various machines attached including a small whiteboard that stated my name and my doctors names that was apparently Dr Masud. I see my Dad step back inside my private cubicle with a small smile and sits down on a bobbling upholstered chair.

"The tube is on lockdown, typical it's your mothers that has broke down, but she's on her way," he says.

"She didn't have to do that," I say, picking at my sheets.

"Well, god help you if you try stopping her," he says, his tone conscious of lightening the mood even a tad but I welcome a healthy dose of laughter.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, my Dad stands and runs a soft hand through my hair.

"What on Earth are you sorry for?" he asks, his tone curious as it is cautious.

"You had a meeting,"

"Fuck the meeting, Olly. Stop apologising for being an apparent burden. We wouldn't have had kids if we didn't want to bunk of meetings sometimes,"

"Or get apparently stuck on the underground," I say dryly, he looks at me exasperated, "Joking," He looks at me and smiles then presses a firm kiss to my forehead.

"But not for this," he says, my forehead still pressed against his, "What happened?"

I stare at my fathers pearl buttons defiantly cursing them for not remembering, "I can't remember," I say my voice faltering and pathetically breaking.

"It's ok, don't worry," he assures, pressing his body ever closer to mine.

"What time is it?" I ask, timidly. Dad flicks his suit up and his green eyes crack down to his watch.

"Just gone nine," he says.

"I've been out that long?" he nods softly with a gentle smile, his eyes no loner reaching mine, then it dawns on me; date. Me and Red - date, "No, Red and me organised a date. He doesn't know. He's going to hate me," I gush out all in one breath.

"Oliver," he chuckles soothingly, "It's ok. I'm sure he'll forgive you. Why don't I speak to him yeah?" I nod my head meekly my head banging from memories and emotions, "Ok,"

He drifts around my bed to the cabinet and then crouches as he retrieves a large clear bag holding my blood clothes that have dark blood stains in random places, I turn away slightly unable to deal with any evidence of the "incident". I can hear Dad rummaging through them and eventually sits down in his seat with my phone, "It's cracked, by the way," he informs me, I nod my head and offer my thumb so he can get into it.

"Do you want to speak to him or shall I?" my Dad asks, just as my curtain is swiped back and a middle-aged man with a black beard dressed in scrubs and not so flattering crocs stands before us.

"Hello, Oliver, I'm Dr Masud, I'll be looking after you whilst you're here," he smiles, taking the clipboard from my bed again, "Mr Chapman, how are we?"

"Good thank you doctor," my Dad replies, I shoot him a glance.

"You've been out for quite some time," he smiles, and gives my doctor a shared amused expression.

"Your MRI slot is ready now," he explains, I turn to my Dad trying not to let the fear show. I fail. Big time.

"It's ok, I'll speak to Red whilst you're gone," he says, I give him a stiff nod.

And I feel the gentle drift of momentum, along with the swell of dread, fear and ultimate loss of hope. This was exactly what I feared. And it was exactly what happened.