hhh

[attr="class","border"]

▼

Isaiah's vitals spiked as Larse sat down on the edge of the bed, ignoring completely the chair that had always been there. “Get off my bed.” He said, plain and curt, before Larse had even stared delving into another rant. But he didn't, and the pressure began to rise. It continued. This was his space, where he was supposed to be safe. Not even nurses or doctors came into it without permission. So much for any good intentions. Being in this space was ignoring basic human boundaries. It was aggression.

There was a crack, and a buzz. The nurse radioed something, and pulled her hip-kit around and reached inside, pulling out an empty needle. She kept looking at the machine and the drips and her eyes portrayed that of a woman getting ready to defend her position at the hospital.

“Sorry. I won't do that again. You're right on that count.” Isaiah ground his teeth together. “But asking you questions...when I tried you told me you didn't want to talk about it. Stop acting like I didn't try. And you have never known what was best for me, did you not get that? What makes you think the chance to say goodbye would have made me worse. I never got to say goodbye, that's what killed me.” Everything was burning, his chest, his face, the back of his head until everything was incoherent. It wasn't quite anger, but he exhibited all the signs. It was breaking up the coma, and the morphine. Everything began to hurt and his fingers began twitching.

“Did you forget the part where I am a product of abandonment, too? My family's gone and left me with a $12 million debt. People like you, like them, pick me up and put me down as soon as you realise where I'm headed. Look around you. I don't have a single sock to my name and I won't even have a grave, no funeral, when I'm dead. Is that not enough to be accepted into your 'abandonment issues' club?” There was no way Larse could expect to him to believe anything about him caring. He'd stopped caring when he'd found a kid who couldn't take a third year in a hospital bed, who had fought as hard as he could and now found himself without the strength to life his arm to grab a pen. Who'd had five years stolen, in the complete sense. In and out of hospital, sick almost every day and paralysed with pain when he wasn't.

But Larse hadn't seen that. Never thought to think about it. Isaiah didn't one day end up in hospital. It was a decline of years.

For all Larse's own life he didn't know how to take his own advice and count his blessings. “Of course I worry about who will help me. I need fucking help. Why would I waste my time on people who won't lend a hand? Friends support each other don't they?”

He took a two second break, trying to subdue the pounding in his head. A glance to the morphine dial, a hands distance too far for him to reach. He received a harsh and worried look from the nurse. One inch towards that dial and he'd be pinned down. “You're a hypocrite. You're black and white. People who take your shit and those that don't. I need something to hold onto too. I just want to have friends that mean something, as do you. But when its me, it's selfish, when its you, its tragedy.”

“All you know about me is what you see. Everything else is assumption you pass as truth. I didn't ask questions because you didn't want to answer them. You didn't ask questions because you didn't care, you spun yourself lies and convinced yourself they were true.”

The nurse just stared, needle still at the ready. Vitals were steady, but high. Larse getting ready to leave. Isaiah tried to grab the hem of his jacket, instead it was a pawing motion, unable to hold on. “You aren't walking away from someone who can't walk away from you again. We're going to be equals this time. Sit on that chair. Get off my bed.”