Lost at the Start

17.

The antiseptic, frigid air hit my nostrils and I knew I was in the right place—the hospital—before I even opened my eyes.

Suddenly, I was more scared of what I would find when I opened them than I could ever remember being.

But I knew I couldn't stay there, sitting—surprise, surprise—with my eyes closed, perched on the edge of the seat, gripping the hard chair arm with all the force of what little muscle I had out of nerves, all day.

I had no choice but to slowly peek out at whatever was waiting for me.

Tall, scrub-blue curtains were across from and behind me, presumably blocking off other patients for privacy in the lack of a private room. I was sitting in one of those bare-bones, half-wood, half pathetic excuse for fabric, hospital chairs that had evidently been pulled up from somewhere else—judging by my current surroundings—and...

There he was.

Jackson, either still unconscious or sleeping, was laid out in the hospital bed mere inches from my chair. His forehead and arms were still bandaged, but had apparently been changed and maybe stitched underneath the gauze, because now the stains I had seen before were gone.

I didn't see any IVs or anything else hooked up to him, which was a good sign. And from what of his shoulders peaked out from underneath the plain white blanket, it looked like they'd left him in his own clothes. Which, I could only assume, was another good sign.

My best guess was that the only reason he was still here was because he wasn't conscious.

Jackson was a year past legal, so the medical staff technically didn't have to wait to release him to a parent with age as the concern. And, from what little I knew of those kinds of regulations, in his case, as long as he didn't have a concussion, age should've been the only thing they maybe had to worry about.

He still couldn't leave on his own if he wasn't, you know, awake, though. That's kind of hard to do.

Well, I guess technically I could've been seen as the potential exception there, but I was dead, not unconscious.

I had just closed my eyes and was about to go back to my room when I heard what sounded like weight shifting on one of the hospital beds.

My eyes shot open and I saw Jackson was now sitting up and looking around, evidently confused. He reached up—presumably to rub his head—but stopped and jerked his hand back when his fingers grazed the gauze wrapped around his temples.

I hadn't realized I willed myself onto his sight plane until he turned back in my direction and gave a small jolt in surprise. Then his eyes widened even further when he realized what he was looking at.

"Luna? What the hack hap—"

Well, at least he's definitely not suffering from amnesia. He remembered who I was, at least.

I jumped up and clamped a hand over his mouth. "Shh! Calm down!" I pulled my hand back and slowly sat back down, unconvinced he would stay quiet without a little help.

Jackson watched me like he'd never seen me before, and I knew I better get explaining before something got misinterpreted or misunderstood and I had an even bigger problem on my hands.

"I'll tell you everything I know about what happened, but you have to be quiet. You're the only one that can see or hear me right now." And I wasn't going to change that, because I had a feeling I was going to have to affirm that I was still dead. Bumps on the head and waking up in a strange place usually make people think everything was a dream.

Especially when your recently deceased girlfriend comes back from the dead as a ghost.

Also, I couldn't control who did or didn't hear Jackson like I could myself, and I had a feeling they wouldn't release him, regardless of how well he was doing, if they had any reason to suspect he wasn't thinking straight. "Talking to people that appear to not be there," probably wouldn't've looked very good to any doctors or nurses that happened upon us.