The Chime of Bluebells

3

"So... Crazy ex, huh?"

I let my eyes shut tightly, leaving my eyes no exposure to the light. I wanted to be left there, in complete darkness, drifting off to a dreamless sleep. But my conversation with Doctor Doroweigh had left nothing but question marks dancing around my head. The relief when they'd finally left the cramped room had been overwhelming. I didn't want to cry, but I could barely contain myself. Doroweigh and Shandra were suppose to shed some light on the situation, and they had, which was the problem. Too much had been told, too much information, and too much outraged assumptions and lies on my part—too much of everything. When the doctor had said my family was waiting downstairs, my heart beat a little easier. Mom was here, Dad was here, even Quinnie. The missing was almost unbearable, as if I'd been away for a long time without either seeing nor hearing from them. I convinced myself everything would become clearer and better when I was allowed to see them. I wanted to go downstairs, but had to wait a couple hours due to the emergent surgery. They kept all patient that had undergone a surgery involving anesthesias in this department in case there would be some unexpected complications—it was closer to the intensive care unit.

"He's not my ex."

I hadn't known Noah very long before I knew he was a talker. What I also knew was that he talked for a reason: all that cheerful joy and sarcasm, that mouth that wouldn't shut up for a damn minute, was a facade—a wall built up around him, protecting him from something. I'd no doubt he'd gone through something that had caused him to rise defences, but compared to him, I knew where to draw the line of privacy. After the doctor and nurse, doing little help to mend my confusion and utter disbelief, the boy to my left had surprisingly succeeded in keeping a low profile and didn't disturb my running brain. He'd kept his distance and left me alone...for a whole ten minutes.

"The dude's in prison," Noah said now, but his voice was low and without the underlining tone of taunt. "He must've done something."

A memory floated to the surface. It was last summer, a warm and sunny day in June, when me and Malachi were out on his friend Juan's boat. I'd packed a basket of fruits, berries, hard cheese and pepperoni-baguettes, sodas and—most importantly—some sweets. It had been a wonderful day of sun bathing, swimming in the ocean, listening to Spanish music—mostly the good old Enrique Iglesias, dancing around the front and laughing. At the end of the day, we watched the sunset whilst I poured us a small bottle of rose wine. Although the level of alcohol barely reached the two percent mark, Malachi refused to drink. He wouldn't even take a sip from my glass, not before we had returned safely to the docks and weren't gonna drive more for the night. He wasn't the kind of guy to get himself into trouble.

From the peripheral view, my eyes registered Noah's gaze briefly falling upon my leg. The Adam's apple dipped as he swallowed hard and tried on a small smile. He shrugged. "But what do I know? It's probably just a very inconvenient coincidence."

It didn't matter what Noah said, or what I wanted to believe, when the strangeness of the situation felt so obvious. Trying to solve this impossible puzzle didn't make anyone any saner. It was like playing guessing game. "How did Malachi end up in jail?"  Not by harming me.

"He would never," my voice murmured, eyes stinging from the tears pressing beneath the lids.

"Okay," Noah said, and his tone indicated he meant it. My eyes turned left to find him sitting up, looking at me with heavy eyes, as if he somehow felt my pain and the turmoil inside.

I knew he hadn't done anything...and I despised myself for the thoughts that kept popping up. What if? But there was no ifs! There never had been and there never would. Period. I'd gotten a blood clot in my left thigh, causing my fainting. Malachi had called the ambulance and they'd taken me here, to Queen Margaret's Hospital in Aleensburg. The anticoagulants hadn't been enough, the clot was too big to be let alone and they'd preformed a quick surgery to remove it. It had been successful and Doctor Doroweigh had explained the pain wasn't remnants from the ball of blood that had been there a few hours ago, but the distress of disturbed skin that had been torn in the process. The lenitives they'd provided me with had already left my systems, so the very brief dull pain was all there was. Knowing this, the pain was lesser: it felt insignificant to the one I'd felt in Malachi's apartment.