Lullaby For The Sadist {ManxMan} {Radish Fiction)

Chapter Two

{Chapter Two}

"Please fill out this form and we'll be with you shortly," a bland voice states, absently handing a clipboard to the man next to me.

"I was ran over," the man exclaims in disbelief. I roll my eyes in exasperation at this.

"I didn't run you over. I hit you, there's a difference. Now shut up and fill out the form, you're not in immediate danger so you're fine. Just take a seat and we can watch Telemundo," I motion with my head to the TV playing a Spanish soap on the aforementioned channel.

The man glares at me, as if he's wishing for my death this very second. He probably is. But that only amuses me more. Despite his glare he seems to realize the nurse is no longer paying attention so he reluctantly moves to sit in one of the uncomfortable green chairs of the waiting room.

He slouches down in his chair as he fills out the paperwork and I notice his eyes glance at me quickly before returning to the paper. I also realize he's tilting the clipboard away from my prying eyes as if there's something on there I can't get in seconds from my family.

"Why are you still here?" he demands heatedly. I only grin at this and pat him hard on his thigh, making him flinch slightly.

"Well I did hit you, I think it's polite to make sure you aren't brain dead," I reply. He grumbles under his breath, finishing off the paperwork before he gets up to hand it to the nurse. I sigh when he's gone, looking around the familiar ER, the warm beige walls that hope to calm patients, the black tiled floors. It doesn't seem so bad, not like most hospitals, and it would be almost easy to forget it's a hospital. If it weren't for the antiseptic smell that all hospitals have. Not to mention the uncomfortable plastic chairs. Honestly, why can't any hospital invest in some nice comfy chairs?

And to think, just a building away is the very same mental hospital I stayed at a little over a year ago. Oh the memories.

"Well if you're going to insist on sticking around then I deserve a name," the guy says in defeat as he sits back down next to me. The chair makes a tired squeak that has him shifting again, only for it to squeak again, until finally he just sits still in frustration.

"You're right," I reply with a hum. "You look like a Philip."

"What? How do I look like a Philip? That isn't the point. I meant your name. You know, when they ask who you are and I just sit there dumbly it'll look a bit suspicious," I wave him off with laughter.

"Isaiah Stone at your service." He glares, an eyebrow lifting.

"Seriously? You're lying, there is no way your last name is so simple. You're Hispanic for god's sake," he points an accusing finger at me and I tilt a brow.

"Well that's awfully rude, I for one don't notice those things," he makes a weird sound of irritation at the back of his throat that sounds a bit like a whine.

"Oh my god, if you haven't noticed I'm the same damn color as you. I hate you," I grin brightly at this, draping my arm around his shoulder.

"Everyone does, buddy. That's what happens when you deal with Isaiah Stone, which by the way is my real name. I'm a mutt," I produce my real ID, showing him that I gave him my real name. He makes another whining noise at the back of his throat as he slumps further in his seat, seeming to wish he could melt into it.

"I should have just stayed in the street and died," he mutters. I nod in agreement, making him glare at me.

"So what's your name, huh?"

"Ángel Dávila," he finally replies.

"Angel, like with wings?" I tease. He glares at me and I wonder if his face will be stuck like that from how much he's keeping it like that.