Daffodil Sprouts🌼

Ch. 51 ' Moving On.

I remember the first time I saw Jason. He was just another face in the crowd. One that dared to double-cross me.

I remember swinging the wristwatch pack in his face.

I remember complaining about him. Awful, harsh Jason.

I remember bothering him. Bothering and bothering.

I remember our last face-off. I might've cried, and those other moments might’ve been annoying in several ways. But if I knew I would one day stare at his face and it would be covered with bandages, I would’ve treasured those times he glared at me. I would’ve hung onto those moments a little longer.

Once I see him almost lifeless on the bed, with so many tubes connected to him, with the middle of his face barely visible beneath bandages, and his eyes shut, I finally realise what I was running away from. I kind of knew seeing this would break me.

Somewhere in me, I hoped that . . . that once I entered, he would be seated, waiting with glowering eyes. I hoped that when I entered I would be blasted with angry words and curses and every other bad thing he had in mind to say to me. I badly hoped that would’ve been what would happen.

Not this.

This is torture. A hammer strike right on the face. I’ve hurt him again, but this time, it’s so bad that he can’t even vent.

To think, it was something like this I was trying to avoid.

I instinctively shift backwards. Away and away, out of the room. I want to run but I don’t have the strength to. All my energy is exerted on the tears continuously streaming down my face. I’m crying so hard Jason’s bed is a blur. When I reach the entrance, I have to use my hands to feel my way out because I can’t bring myself to look away. I reach out. I stare down the corridor. I realise I can't make out how I reached here, the private care area, and hence don't know which way to leave towards either. Backwards, or forwards.

In the blur of my sight, the stature of a man forms and I recognise Jason’s Dad. His image disappears as soon as it forms, consumed by more tears. I put my hands over my face, trying to reduce the noise I’m making and get myself out of here. If I know where the restroom is, I would be running there already. I just want to hide somewhere and cry forever. Till these aches cease.

I’m in someone’s arms again. My body shaking against theirs.

Why . . . Why does everyone keep being nice to me despite all I’ve caused? How? How, when I can’t even stand myself? Aren’t they seeing it in the same way I am?

He ushers me to the bench opposite the room entrance and wipes away my tears. “Hey, look at me.”

I put my face back in my hands. “I can’t,” I choke. The guilt that crushes me every time I do is too much weight to bear. It’s something I know I deserve, but can’t bring myself to take.

“Yesmi, look at me . . . ?”

I don’t respond, leaving my face in my hands.

A few seconds after, his hands leave my arms, but I don’t hear him stand or walk away. I peep at him. Noticing, he speaks.

“What makes you cry?”

I don’t answer.

He looks at me. “His condition?”

I nod.

He sighs. “Yeah, that’s fine . . . But—” he looks at me again, “are you sure it’s because of his condition, and not because you feel guilty?”

I stare blankly for many seconds. “How can I not feel guilty?”

He brings his head closer to mine. “Should I answer sincerely?”