Sunflowers, Bees and Honey

VII

Clementine felt like every cell in her body was shackled to the bed by rocks. The room she was stuck in was a lifeless dove-walled one with only her metal bed, some plastic bleached furniture and her tubes and machinery to occupy it.

Not even a window was present.

She did not yet figure out how she felt about burning herself out this morning, about the 36 hours with no sleep or food and barely any sips of water, about the violin dropping down and smashing against toppled bottles of paint and open textbooks when her body finally gave out on her, the fever that broke out in rippling waves from her chest and made her breaths shallow and vision spin.

Despite the fact that her head was pounding persistently in the back of her mind, she brushed the pain aside, not wanting to deal with anymore nurses fuss over her like a doll.

Nevertheless, thoughts leapt out of her brain when the dull steel door opened and her eyes caught a glimpse of a lean body clad in cobalt entering.

For an eternity, neither of them dared to spell a word out as they both contently gazed at the other. A certain understanding and acknowledgment passed between them, beginning from the bottom of a chamber within her soul and ending somewhere similar in his. Emotions. Too many emotions were caught in the middle as if in a spider's web, waiting with sick anticipation to know which one will the inner predator choose to devour today. A silence so quiet yet so loud, devoid of vibrations yet full of songs of relief and ballads of hope. Expectations and fear clouded the air in whips and whiffs of the electricity that appeared to have come back to hum to them again.

And then-"Well the hospital lights are clearly no fan of your face's sharp angles."

James does not open his mouth for what felt like ages that she believed he'll turn around and leave.

But a broken, "Clem," came out and he's rushing across the room and to her side faster than she's seen anybody ever move.

It escalated with a, "What happened," and concluded with a, "Haven't slept or eaten for four days trying to catch up with all the latest songs on my violin and paint a minimum of two portrays while joggling finals till I..."

"Clem," he mumbled again when she was done, "Please take care of yourself. Please. And I don't just mean eat and sleep, love. I mean pull out. Drop out of some of your practices and lessons and bare your time. You can't go on like this."

If she wasn't so tired, she'd absolutely be making comments about all the nicknames, not to mention the abbreviation to her actual name. Instead, she wounded up saying, "Yeah. It's about time I talked to my parents about this anyway."

He smiled, and Clementine's lungs stilled for a twinkle.

"When I was your age-" he started out of the blue before she interrupted him.

"I knew you're a grandpa."

"Shut up," it came out fondly. "Anyhow..."

So they talk.

He tells her of a reckless lost boy two years ago, drunk driving with his girlfriend, taking advantage of their slow reflexes to experience rushes of adrenaline as they swerved the car thinking themselves invincible. He tells her of a coming tree and a final turn and flying, flying, flying and blackness taking over. He tells her of frantic ambulance cars and close calls. Of a bitter breakup and ptsd. Of therapy, therapy, therapy till he decided he wanted to save lives and piece back the aftermaths.

She tells him of peer pressure and the crushing burden of atlas cast upon her. She tells him of all the 'you have so much potential' and the 'can't you get the formula through your thick skull and just apply it?'. She tells him of shaking hands and sneaking doubts. Of insecurities and insomnia. Of the feeling of falling, falling, falling down a rabbit hole of the standards she'll never meet.

He tells her of his juvie time and the kind of kids he met. Of how he steered clear of some and tried protecting others. Of his first day at school, and his desire to make something out of himself, something that can't be tossed away when born with nothing but a name attached to it.

She tells him of long nights at her grandma's. Of strawberry jams and blowing dandelions on the outskirts of Louhans. Of her ache for the city life by the beach, and her long flight to Florida with English words cramming her brain, ready to settle into their new home.
By the time their voices were dry and hoarse, James was holding her hand and tracing the back of it.

"Next step is third base am I right?" She teased him slyly.

It took him a while to catch on, but once he did, he immediately snatched his hands away as a belly laughter broke out of Clementine's sore body.

He joined her less than a heartbeat later till they were both tearful with mirth.