bambi eyes || tradley

13. eyes wide open

Tristan tried to scream and thrash his limp body around before his dream became a reality, but the blond was voiceless, and his body felt so numb, his limbs too heavy for him to lift. The twenty-one-year-old opened his mouth wide again to let out the loudest scream his throat could manage, but his voice failed him yet again, causing the doctor to laugh.

"There's no reason to fight, Tristan," the man told him, pressing a hand on his head and holding it down.

The blue-eyed man blinked rapidly, attempting to bring his vision back to normalcy and fight off the sleep seeping its way into his bones. "Please!" he weakly pleaded. It took all of him to turn his head the other way. "I beg of you!"

"It won't hurt," he claimed, nonchalantly moving his head back into place. "Just a little bee sting, I promise."

Tristan thought how it was rather unfortunate he'd never been stung by a bee. "Please, don't do this! There's nothing wrong with me! I'm not schizophrenic, I swear!"

"Oh, Mister Evans," the man said, attempting to stop his head movements, "this surely isn't for schizophrenia."

Tristan widened his eyes, confusion taking over his foggy mind. "Then what is this?" he shouted, fighting against the doctor and slumber as much as his limp body allowed him. "What do you want from me?"

"Stop fighting, Tristan." He gripped an awful handful of Tristan's blond quiff, forcing his head into place. The blond could already feel the injection from his dream, the uncomfortable feeling of cool water engulfing his body before paralyzing him and knocking him unconscious. He didn't know what it could do to him, but he wasn't planning on finding out.

"Get the fuck off of me!" he demanded, his voice weakening as tears streamed down his face. He could feel himself slowly slipping away before he pulled his conscious back to reality, thrashing his fading body around. "I haven't done anything to you! This is wrong!"

"Looks like we're going to have to do this the hard way," the man muttered, returning the needle back to a silver tray and pinching the bridge of his nose. He placed a hand underneath the twenty-one-year-old's legs and another underneath his back, lifting the man from the chair like a child. Tristan tried kicking his legs in protest, but the feeling in his limbs had disappeared by then, leaving him hopeless. It was like something was slowly consuming each part of him, cutting his nerves out of motion.

"You're an asshole," Tristan slurred as he was placed in the wheelchair, the doctor bounding his wrist and ankles. "This isn't right..."

His eyelids slowly closed as the sound of the doctor's footsteps inched away from him, heavy breaths slowing down and deepening as sleep began taking over him. But he quickly snapped his conscious out of suspension, blinking rapidly as the blurry man stood by a closet, the sound of wheels rolling across the tiled floor. Tristan's breathing quickened as he caught sight of an IV pole in the doctor's hand and his heart hysterically thumped against his ribcage at the realisation of his fate.

. . .

Brown eyes anxiously darted around the waiting room, taking in the large TV overheard, and the receptionist behind the desk eyeing a computer monitor with a phone pressed to his ear. Bambi had been watching him for five minutes, and the man hadn't said anything into it. The place was beginning to become sketchy, and the twenty-year-old was beginning to fear for Tristan's safety.

The brown-eyed boy turned to Tristan's mother. She looked so nonchalant, crossed legs and magazine in hand. "I am worried of Tristan. Do you think he is all right back there?" he nervously questioned.

She glanced up and smiled. "He's fine. This is the psychologist his doctor recommended."

"I am getting a bad feeling," Bambi explained. He pointed a finger to the receptionist. "And I do not think he knows much of what he's doing."