Chapter Ten: Dark Red Spot

Everyone was speechless as they stood solemnly around the bed. Tears were streaming down his mothers face, but Chris just stared blankly at the ceiling, as though it wasn't there. He was surprisingly calm, but he now ached more than ever to be alone in the junkyard - away from the sobbing and the hospital smell and the medication and everything else that closed in on him at that moment.

His family was there to comfort him, not knowing how he would react to what the doctor just told him. At the moment, his mom seemed to be affected far more deeply than Chris was, but it was impossible for his family to know what was going through his mind. In fact, there wasn't much going through his mind at all. To find out that his arm was now missing put him in a shock that left him near breathless. His mind felt as though it was a clean slate, waiting for a million words to be written across it. Yet right now he couldn't think of a single thing to write.

Having regained some control over his body, he turned his head to look at what remained of his arm for the first time. A certain amount of disbelief crept through his mind since even now he continued to feel sharp pain through his arm. Dr. Banks (as he had finally introduced himself) explained why he continued to feel this pain. It made sense to Chris while it was being explained, but the doctors words were forgotten almost immediately. Focusing on anything was a difficult task. The disbelief gradually dissolved as he looked at a dark, red spot seeping through sterile, white bandages. The drying spot of blood marked what was left of his arm and was just inches from where his elbow would have been. It was this spot that Chris now became fixated, strangely enough. Although it was the most concrete evidence of his own surreal tragedy, it also entranced him in a way that made him forget where he was.

"Can I get you something, honey?" his mom asked instinctively. There was little she had to offer here outside of her own domain, home. The adjustable table over the bed had water, a partially eaten plate of instant potatoes and processed turkey and two unused, star-shaped, lollipop-sized sponges on sticks. As weak as Chris was, he had managed to drink his water from a Styrofoam cup through a straw – something he forced himself to do specifically so he wouldn't have to use the sponges to wet his mouth. The nurse made regular visits and did everything for Chris that his mother normally would have done. Not wanting to further distress his mother by pointing out this fact, he responded by asking her to pour him some more water.

“I'm glad you guys are here. I though maybe you had forgotten about me,” he weakly tried to joke. As he spoke he became keenly aware of how dry his throat was. He had not said a word the whole time he was in the hospital, at least not while he was conscious enough to remember. Speaking now irritated his throat further, which was already dry from the pain-killers that were being pumped into him through the I.V. He sipped the water, which burned initially until it had a chance to coat his throat. “You goin' back home tonight?”

His parents had driven about two hours to get to this hospital. Although they had a hospital in their own town, it was really more of a clinic and was not able to perform the surgery that Chris needed. He was taken there initially, but was quickly transported out by ambulance once they realized the seriousness of his condition. “We'll be staying here tonight. In the morning they're supposed to know how much longer they'll keep you. We figured we'd stay till they let us know,” his dad replied. It was the first thing his dad said since he got there. There was a particular comfort hearing his dad's voice, even if the actual words had no particular meaning.

Once they started speaking they talked for several hours. Even though he felt almost annoyed by their presence at first, the familiarity of the conversation brought him a peace-of-mind that he had not felt in years, let alone since coming to the hospital. The despair that Chris was initially feeling faded away as they talked about his job, his brothers and sisters and the going-ons in their lives, and anything else to help him forget. Chris eventually fell asleep, giving in to the effects of the medication as it made its way through his veins. After briefly talking between themselves, his parents went to sleep in the hospital chairs next to the bed.

Chapter Eight: Limp Wrist

As Tedford and Krystal walked down the street past the fastfood joints and sundry small businesses that lined the roadway, they laughed and flirted as they got to know each other. They were only about half a mile away from their apartment when a bike courier came flying around a corner at full speed and plowed right into them. Krystal flew back and landed against a shop wall, her head cracking the glass entrance door. She was out, instantly - a trickle of blood making it's way unseen down the back of her neck and back. T-Bone and the courier were also thrown across the sidewalk, but both landed seemingly unharmed, if not awkwardly - perhaps only their pride being bruised. The courier and Tedford got in each others' faces and angry words flew rapidly, until a split second later Tedford realized that Krystal hadn't stood back up. "Somebody call an ambulance!" a woman shouted, panicked. Inside the shop, the cashier was already on the phone, and a small group of people were closing in to get a better look at the motionless girl. The front tire of the prone bicycle spun slowly, but no one seemed to notice.

Paramedics arrived on the scene after what seemed like an eternity, but soon thereafter Tedford was watching Krystal lifted onto a gurney and placed in the back of the flashing vehicle. He climbed in the back also, accompanied by an EMT and a policeman asking questions as the sirens of the conveyance lurched and whisked them off toward the hospital.

The two were separated upon arrival, as a nurse treated T-Bone's head and face bruises, and assessed that his wrist had been sprained. She fitted him with a wrist brace while another frocked worker helped him fill out paperwork. He was told that Krystal was unconcious and had a severe concussion that warranted them keeping her overnight for observation. Since we wasn't technically family, they apoligised, he'd have to come back tomorrow during visiting hours to check up on her. Dismayed and a little dazed, he lingered, then left the ER, walking aimlessly back in the general direction of his neighborhood. The evening was still young, the sun not even having set yet, so he felt no sense of urgency. As he neared a supermarket on the opposite side of the street, he remembered that he had absolutely nothing at the apartment to eat, so in he meandered to procure some quick victuals.

In his lingering state of mild shock and disbelief at Krystal's misfortune, he had already forgotten about his own minor bruises and wrist, until he instinctively reached for a jug of milk with his left hand, then caught sight of the brace as he simultaneously felt a twinge of pain. He switched hands and grabbed the milk with his right hand, and let the foggy cooler section door swing shut.

Krystal was in stable condition, but slipped in and out of conciousness a few times, and couldn't remember what had happened or where she was. All she could surmise is that her head was pounding with pain now, and all she wanted to do was slip back into that dreamy wonderland of sleep. And she did, but is was not a restful sleep. When she next came to, her deductive reasoning told her that she must be in a hospital room, but who the devil were all those people whispering and talking behind the curtain? From what eavesdropping she remembered upon waking hours later, the person in the other half of the room must've had some sort of traumatic accident, and his family must've stayed the night with him. But Krystal was all alone.