A Rush of Blood to the Head

When Did It Start Raining?

At last, John was able to get some rest. No dreams, which was odd for him. Lately, he'd been seeing ghosts. Night after night, his past self was talking to him; Dennis Gant. He was happy — alive. Of course, it was a dream. The whole relationship was just a fabrication, or a hallucination, or the result of the insane mental and physical punishments he'd given himself. John's future self now found reason to be sad: the time he'd spent with Dennis Gant was over. He would never get to see him again.

John came back to reality and woke up, on the verge of crying. The room was dark, but not enough to impede his sight. The glow from the hall helped.

Bleary eyes caught a glimpse of someone. Someone on the short side, dark hair. He surmised it was Carol. Or maybe Maggie Doyle. He couldn't tell, the sleepiness in his eyes hadn't quite gone away yet. Whoever it was, they were about to leave.

John spoke up before they could. "Where are you going?"

A familiar voice came. It was Carol's. "Hey. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you. My shift is over, so I thought I would check in."

"Oh, that's okay. It wasn't you," he said, somewhat quavering with emotion. John glanced out the wet window pane. "When did it start raining?"

"About an hour ago. Are you okay? You sound like you've been crying."

"I think I was in my sleep. I don't know," He lifted his wrist to check the watch that wasn't there, then flopped his arm back down on to his lap. "What time is it?"

"Eight fifteen — P.M. You've been out for seven hours. How do you feel?"

"Like I could sleep another twelve," John and Carol both softly chuckled. "I'm sorry," he said.

"What for?"

"For being an ass."

"You've already apologised for that, John."

"I know, but still. I crossed many lines today, I could have easily mistreated a patient and I'm sorry for that."

"Don't tell me, tell the patients you saw."

Panic hit him like icy water. Through quickening breaths, he asked, "Did something happen to them?"

"Nope. Miss De Mayo was able to pass gas — in fact, I think she rattled a few windows. And that boy, with the appendectomy, he'll be fine and out in a few days," She smiled at him. "You did well, considering how sick and exhausted you were."

"Oh. Well, good. I was worried I left something in or gave the wrong dosage or... something."

"No, but you could have, which is why I'm glad you decided to be admitted."

"Well, I wasn't left with much choice," he replied, a hint of resentment laced with his words. "But so am I. To be honest, I'm grateful for the break," Taking notice of Carol's po-faced expression, John's chocolate-brown eyes narrowed as if aiming a gun. "What's wrong?"

Carol drew in a deep breath to calm her nerves. What she was about to bring up had the potential to be sensitive, and she didn't want to say the wrong thing. She eventually responded in a low, troubled way. "When I was giving you oxygen, I saw something on your inner left arm. Vertical cuts. Obviously, there was some intent there."

Feeling embarrassed and guilty, John shifted in bed and drawled, "Ohh, shit."

"So you did do it to yourself?"

Slowly, he nodded. "I'm not proud of it. I was weak and–" John gulped and, for a moment, bit the inside of his lower lip for emotional control. "I mean, how is it fair that I get to live while he's gone, you know?"