Yellow Lines

Chapter 4 - Weak

Before I could land another blow to Mrs. Steino's face, Cara caught my hand, "Stop, Lei!"

Marko intervened, pulling me away from Mrs Steino.

"Let me go, Marko," I breathed. My hand ached so much from hitting her, that I held it with the other. Insulting me was one thing, but involving my parents who had nothing to do with her or Luke was another.

God, my chest burned. I looked up at Mrs. Steino and marveled at my neat palm print on her red cheeks.

"Leila," Cara shouted, "what have you done?"

"Exactly what she deserved," I rasped. "She has been racist, nasty and ashamed of me since her son and I have been together." I cleared my throat and coughed when my chest squeezed again.

"But it gives you no right, Lei!" Cara argued. "You can't just hit her."

"I've had it with her ." But the more I spoke, the more my chest tightened. Then I had to gasps for air.

"You're not good for my son and will never be. You will pay for hitting me like that little girl." Mrs. Steino touched her face.

"Shut up," I sneered. "I'm leaving and I will not be visiting Luke as long as that woman is here," I pointed at her. "I refuse to be here with racist pigs. Every—" I inhaled. "Everyone has been against me from day one."

"Lei..." Cara reached for me. "That's not true."

"Yes, and you too. You have been acting weird since we arrived and you've had Marko answering for you the entire night."

Cara's eyes widened. "Leila."

"Please miss me with your bull-shit Cara," I walked off.

As I scurried down the corridor, I clutched my throat. The room spun and I felt as if I'd been in a whirlwind. My legs wobbled beneath me causing me to stumble to the floor with a thud.

"Leila!" Cara out.

Then faintly I heard Mrs. Steino saying, "Served her right, for hitting me," before bubbly darkness crept over.

I opened my eyes when loud pulsating beeps surrounded me. I peered up at the ceiling, only to realize the familiarity of the room. I groaned, hating that I was still at the hospital. A nurse or whoever had pinned an IV bag onto my arm and a heart rate monitor on my finger.

I glanced up to see Cara sitting in a chair across the room. She glowered as if I did something wrong and then darted outside for about three minutes before returning with a doctor.

"Ms. Clarke?" the lady asked.

"Yes? Why am I attached to IV drips and why am I on this bed? I need to go home."

"Ms. Clarke, my name is doctor Fitza and I will be your doctor for your remaining time on the ward."

"Remaining? What?" My heartbeats sped up.

"Yes," she glanced at the monitor. "Please, calm down. The episode you had thirty minutes ago was a panic attack."

Well, the panic attack was new... Doctor Fitza looked as if she could retire early with all those wrinkle lines. Even her dirty blond hair looked dry and in need of TLC.

"May I ask?" she continued, placing her hand beside me. "Have you been through or have felt an excessive amount of stress within the past six months?"

"No," I lied.

"Yes!" Cara objected.

I totally forgot she occupied the room.

"Yes, doctor, she has been. She recently lost her father and now her fiance is in a coma," Cara said.