Sasquatch to the Moon

Emergency Medical Dad: Chapter 1

uh anyway i realized I like dropped off the face of the earth on here. i don't think i've gone a week without a post in 2 straight years so this is funky fresh and is leaving me with a lot of blank gaps where I would be checking wattpad if I had updated

i'm like 2 weeks back into full-week school, so i go every single day, and lemme tell you: what the hell. 

anyway, here's the opener to Emergency Medical Dad. I will warn you, this book is like way off what wattpad people normally read so i'm not expecting it to get traction like 1, 2, and 3 did but that's okay. 

also i have to make a college decision in 14 days and I don't know what I'm going to do because i literally don't like any of my options (they're good schools I'm just not excited about any of them)

have a good friday, this is lowkey rather short

-rabid

***

JORGEN

Or what?

My throat was burning.

Or what?

Why did I say that?

Or what?

The bricks were wet against the sides of the alley, mossy, slick to the touch from algae.

Or what?

There was a small stash of needles under the fire escape of the complex to my left.

Or what?

Kazian Phillips was still a mute, still had long hair, and didn't even have his first binder.

Or what?

Zak Hampton's nose was bleeding.

Or what?

I was eighteen, standing on two feet.

Or what?

There were sirens in the distance.

Or what?

I can't even remember his face.

Or what?

The barrel of the gun, however, is crystal clear.

Or what? Or what? Or what? Or what? Or what?

***

I jolt awake, sweat running down the crease of my hip, goosebumps roaring through my body, pricking against the sock over my thigh. My arms and shoulders are quivering and feel like jam for toast when I lift them to wipe the sweat off my face.

I hate being back in Chicago.

And I hate that I never remember the dream after I wake up. I have no recollection of that night, nor the days following, and I know it's in there somewhere, blocked out. I've yet to grasp it, yet to pick it apart like I so badly want to. Yet to take what I know and line it up with what my memory provides.

Memories change every time you recall them, as you store only the last recollection, a systemic deterioration. I've yet to consciously remember the night so what I have is as infallible as a memory can be.

And still I can't scrape it out of myself. Not for the police, for my friends, anyone at the hospital, not even my team nor my closest friends.

It's not there.

My memory goes black the night before March 29th, then picks up again April 6th. One day conscious, six days unconscious. Then it fills back in again.