blue (book one) - h.s. ✔️ watty's 2019

chapter 86

"We contacted your listed emergency contact. . . a Joan Drue?" the doctor begins. His features are sharp and defined. Honestly, he reminds me a bit of my father. A strong jawline, medium-thick scruff graces his face. His blonde hair is slicked to perfection. Despite the wisdom and easy wrinkles decorating his face, he has a rather youthful presence. It's pleasant.

"Yes, that's my mom," I answer slightly sore. My head and right leg are killing me. I don't remember much about the last hour. Everything happened so fast. One second I'm reaching for a tissue, and the next I'm being rushed to the hospital. I've checked on the other guy several times since I've been admitted. I felt sick to my stomach when I found comprehension. Due to my own stupidity and blindness, we both ended up in the hospital. The guy, whose name I found earlier to be Russel, has been a saint. Not once has he blamed me for the incident, even though it is my fault. He fell asleep a little while ago, with slight aches in his lower abdomen. I don't know how, but I have to do something for him.

"Good. We contacted her a little over an hour ago. Call went straight to voicemail, so we left a message not disclosing anything other than that you were in a small accident. She hasn't gotten back to us, but as soon as she does you'll be the first to know," he finishes, smiling kindly down at me.

I don't respond with words, my mouth to sore to speak. With a small smile, I dismiss the conversation resting my head on the too hard pillow to try and relax. Everything in my life is falling apart. My memory of the last couple of hours is blurred, but still very real. I know that I'm supposed to be angry with Harry, but I don't know exactly why. I loosely remember our intense argument, and walking out on him. None of it makes sense. I almost start to cry every time I think of it.

What happened?

Before my phone was confiscated, I saw that I had received over thirty messages and seventeen missed calls from the boy. Again, I don't really remember much, but it scares me to know that he's so worked up about whatever it is that happened.

Things couldn't have gotten that bad, right?

"I'll be back in an hour to check your vitals. There's no telling when your short term memory loss will come back, but it will. With time. Usually, a trigger, a word, an object, or even reliving a situation can bring back lost memories," he begins, shuffling about through the tiny room.

"Don't worry. The brain is a tricky organ, but it can be predictable. Get some rest."

With a kind smile, he exits the room leaving me alone. He's right. There's no need for me to work myself up over something I have no control of. I'm sure that when I get the chance to talk to Harry at least some parts of last night will restore. For now, I just want to sleep. My body and my mind hurts terribly.

"Parker!" a British voice cries, startling me. My eyes open wide looking around frantically. There's no one around in the cold room. In the hallway, there are bustling bodies everywhere. It's hard to deciper whether or not it was even real - perhaps it was just another product of my brain injury. Why did the voice sound like Harry? I guess it could've just been a figment of my imagination.

"Where is he?"

What?

There's no doubt that that's his rough voice. I hear him running around, yet I cannot see a thing from my position in bed. My entire body is shocked with pain as I move to get off the hard bed. The pain and now the light is suddenly unbearable. My vision is hazy from the sudden intensity of ache, but I have to know what's happening. Immediately, as soon as my body is completely off of the white bed, a very loud and blaring alarm goes off. However, I continue with my intial motive, accepting the disappointment that is sure to come my way from the older nurse.

"I don't give a fuck. I am his boyfriend. I have every right to know where he is!"

By now, I'm sure that the voice is Harry's; he's directly in front of me, facing the help desk. He looks. . . beaten? His clothes, well, shirt, is tattered and torn to bits. So much so that the few tattoes that reach around his back are showing proudly. His back is covered in scars and bruises. His hair is wild and sticking up in all directions. There's a small trail of mud leading to his current position that can also be spotted on several parts of his clothes. If it wasn't for his distinct accent, I'm not sure that I'd be able to recognize him. There are only two times I've ever seen the green-eyed man like this: the music festival and the night I returned from Arizona.

"Harry?" I break, my voice sounding foreign, even to me. He doesn't hear me. Instead, his complaints have grown louder, drawing attention from several other worried-looking nurses and patients. I keep repeating his name to no avail. It's as if he can't hear me. My throat is tense and still very sore from the wreck. My body has breathed a second wind, becoming numb to the pain. I continue to yell his name until I realize that I haven't actually said his name; it's all been in my head.

"Harold?"

My voice comes out much quieter than the previous pronounciations in my head, but he seems to hear, tensing up. Without another word, he slowly turns his body to face me with hurt eyes. His front appearance is almost, if not worse, than his back. A dark, purple bruise has started to form around his right eye making the right side of his face look honestly grotesque. I have never seen him so broken and beaten. His lips move for a second, as if he's speaking a loud before he closes the distance with two giant stides. I physically flinch, involuntarily closing my eyes as I anticpate the pain that is bound to surface from his touch.

Nothing.

My eyes are still shut tightly together as I wait for his embrace. But, he doesn't touch me. I only feel his hot breath on my face, reaking of alcohol and mint. When I open my eyes, he looks confused. Both of his eyebrows nearly touch as he stares at me. I don't understand why he's just standing, staring at me. His eyes are wide and searching all over my face. I feel uncomfortable under his intense gaze, but he doesn't seem to notice my uneasiness.

"I can't believe you're drinking again," I say wanting to sound irritated, but coming off awkward due to his stare. Just when I thought his brows couldn't get any closer, they do, his nostrils flaring slightly in the process.

Then, without speaking, his lips meet mine in a needy kiss. His lips taste metallic, because of the dry blood. Deepening the kiss, yet still not touching me with hands, he inhales deeply in a carnal way. Everything about him is needy. His distant hands, lips, tongue, presence. Though he's making sure to keep gentle with me, my face is pained terribly. It's all almost too overwhelming.

He breaks the kiss, looking down at me with the same confused expression. His eyes, once again, search my face this time more quickly for a reaction. I feel as if I'm some ancient artifact in a museum being examined for damage. With the back of his hand, he lightly caresses my right cheek making me confused.

"We have to talk."