Metanoia // George Ezra Fanfic

Break-up Letter

George must think I'm crazy. 

Irreversibly insane. 

Magnificently mad. 

Bonkers.

I park in a spot close to the front door. We get out of the car, and I escort him into the hospital, where we're both questioned and given paperwork to fill out. The nurse is noticeably surprised when I tell her I hit him with my car. 

George swoops in, quickly explaining to the nurse that it wasn't my fault, because he wasn't watching where he was going, and says that it's "probably not necessary that he be here."

 I argue with him that it was my fault, and that he should be here, because he could be hurt. By the time we've finished arguing, the nurse looks at both of us with deep concern.

He and I sit in the hospital waiting room, waiting for a doctor to come look at him. The hospital lights are dim, and it smells like plastic gloves and medicine. The cream colored walls and the blue chairs make me uncomfortable. I've never liked hospitals. 

To add to injury, I can hear a slow love song echoing from one of the hallways near by. The soulful voice trills out beautiful lyrics about wanting to stay awake until his lady friend comes home. 

It makes me want to vomit.

A doctor step in the room and reads off a clipboard, "George Barnett."

"Here." George says, standing up. I like his voice.

The doctor looks over at George and asks, "Age?"

"Twenty-six." George says.

My mouth drops open. I stare at him, muttering in a flabbergasted tone, "You're twenty-six?"

He nods, glancing at me, "I know, I look younger than I am."

Minutes later, he's taken back to be looked at by a nurse. I wait in the blue hospital chairs, with my knees tucked up to my chin. The sounds of the hospital fade together, until they're just fuzzy background music for my raging thoughts.

I bounce back and forth between thinking about Samson, trying to make sense of the knots that lie in the bottom of my stomach, and George, the poor boy I hit with my car. He must think I'm insane. The longer I refelct, the more I believe that I'm think I'm insane. I can't imagine being in his situation. 

Crazy. I'm crazy.

I think back to the cut on his hand. He's right. He's so right. There is most likely nothing wrong with him. I'm left to sit in the lobby, feeling like an idiot for over re-acting -- and, of course, for dating Samson, and not confronting him sooner. 

Inside my head, there's a tennis match, in which my emotions keep bouncing back and forth from sad to angry.

Suddenly, I'm aware of someone standing next to me, and I look up to see a nurse with auburn hair offering me a kind smile, "You're with Mr. Barnett?"

"George Barnett?" I clarify.

"Yes, ma'am."

I nod, sitting up.

She smiles, "You'll be happy to know that he's just fine. We checked him for concussions, but he's only got a couple scratches. He's very lucky. Sometimes even minor incidents can go terribly wrong."

I nod, feeling more ridiculous than ever, but still, I reply, "That's great! Thank you."

She nods and walks away.

I groan, burying my face in my hands and resting my elbows on my knees. 

What have I done?

Slowly, I stand up, walking over to the nurse's desk, and asking them to inform George that I'm waiting outside whenever he comes out. I step into the cool air that envelopes me as I walk over to my car and retrieve a notebook from it. The sky has started to turn a shade of light orange, and the trees become darker with the setting sun. I find a park bench, near a small oak tree and sit down.