Teenage Bones

Worry Later, Run Now

Tyler Black's POv

I was escorted by security out into the waiting room because I didn't want to leave her, and the waiting room makes me feel no better. The image of the doctors delivering bone-shattering CPR to Esmé makes me feel sick to the stomach and there's absolutely nothing I can do about it. I'm worried. I want her awake and moving, telling me not to worry or telling me that I'm an idiot. The weight on my chest still concerns me, what could've caused this? Could it of been food poisoning?

There's a bash through the door as a patient is on a bed, being wheeled out into another separate hallway. She's curled up into herself, holding an oxygen mask to her face and crying, strangled sounds choking from her throat. Her winding black hair reminds me of Hope when she swallowed Mum's cocaine infused whiskey when she was twelve years old. She was sick for a long time after that, sometimes sleeping whole days.

A nurse holding a clipboard walks toward me, stopping when she's close to me. Died black hair with doe brown eyes, piercings and neutral makeup. "Sir, are you here for Esmé Black?"

"Yes." I stand and she steps back, giving me some breathing room. Esmé Peters is dead in the eyes of the law so instead, I gave her my name. "Is she okay?"

"She's going to be okay."

The sigh of relief was crazy, forcing me to sit down and cover my face and a few tears raced down.

"What is your name, sir?" She askes, pen in hand.

"Tyler Joshua Black." The nurse nods, gesturing I follow her with her pen holding hand. And I do.

"Is she your sister?" The nurse asks.

"No, wife." The lie keeps pumping themselves up.

"Young love, huh? I hope all goes well." The nurse steps into Esmé's room, holding the door open for me to walk through. They've got both her arms hooked up on two different kinds of fluids, an oxygen mask on her face, sticky pads on her chest and extra blankets have been added too. Honestly, she looks terrible, blue and purple rings appearing under her eyes from nowhere.

Then I notice her arms are bandaged up thickly.

"Please take a seat, Mr. Black." Taking the back of a torturous plastic chair and placing it by Esmé, I sit, taking her feverish hand in my own.

The nurse pulls up her own chair next to mine, clicking her pen. "Has Esmé ever received any medication for depression or anxiety?"

"Not that I know of." Her eyes judge me silently.

"Has Esmé even been diagnosed with an eating disorder?" 

I shake my head.

"Has Esmé been displaying any suicidal tendencies?" Another silent head shake and the nurse sighs, placing her clipboard on the side of the bed and looking at me, enforcing eye contact. "When Esmé was emitted, she has deep lacerations on her arms which look to be self-inflicted. We have found a small amount of diluted aconite in Esmé's blood steam which shouldn't be fatal but it seems like Esmé is allergic- which she must've known because it's not used for cooking but it looks like she's ingested it. It's a well know poison too."

My mum is growing aconite in her garden. She made Esmé's orange juice this morning.

"Will she be okay?" 

"Yes. The aconite is already out of her system and we have stitched up the wounds on her arms. Is there anything else I should know?" She looks hopeful, "please keep your wife's life in mind."

I shake my head and the nurse leaves, giving me the privacy to call Starr, who actually picks up.

"About fucking time!" I half yell.