Love Never Wanted Me

4

Hospitals are quite possibly the worst place to be alone. The plain walls, the busy nurses running about from station to station, and the various sounds coming from patients at all levels of illness make your mind go to the darkest places. They all remind me of how definite life is; how we all have a beginning and ultimately an end. I guess that's why I avoid them. I mean, I guess nobody actively chooses to go to a hospital. I would assume most people avoid them whenever they can.

I don't know. I just don't like it here.

Adjusting myself in what is possibly the most uncomfortable chair known to man, I prop up the hood of my red pullover and tuck my legs in close to my chest. My eyes dart around the Urgent Care, taking in the various people in their beds and listening to the different conversations going on around me. I'm not really eavesdropping, just observing. My gaze then returns to the resting figure laying in the bed next to me.

Patrick, my brand-new neighbor.

Brendon was practically frantic when he knocked on my door, begging me to drive them to the hospital:

"I know I'm asking a lot, Lilah," he said, "but I don't think I'm sober enough to drive and I don't think this, whatever it is, is something that's just going to pass. Please."

I didn't want to leave my apartment, but how could I have refused? Brendon's helped me on more than one occasion, what right do I have to be a bitch and deny him now?

I took Brendon's keys and brought his car up to the front of the building. As soon as I ran back inside and saw Patrick, I understood Brendon's urgency. His skin was ghostly white and beads of sweat dotted his forehead. He looked completely out of it; I don't think he was entirely conscious. I helped Brendon carry Patrick down the stairs and loaded him into the back. The whole drive to the hospital, he was sprawled out across the seats, feverishly moaning. I was scared for him; he was in bad shape.

Once we got him inside the hospital, the nurses took him back to begin examinations. Brendon told them about Patrick's complaints of a headache and dizziness before he had passed out. He even tried to go back with them, but one of the nurses told him just to wait until they had settled Patrick into a bed.

Brendon had then told me I could take the car back to the apartment. He didn't know how long this would take and there wasn't a need for me to wait with him. Without a second thought, I told him I'd stay.

I've been there, waiting for who knows what when a loved one's sick. I went through it with my mom. Even though I wasn't in the best headspace at the time, I remember how lonely it was. The waiting and the wondering of what's going to happen next. Is there good news? Bad news? Is there any news at all? It's draining and nobody should have to go through it alone, especially in a place as dreary as a hospital.

"The machines don't have sodas," Brendon says, coming over to sit down beside me, "Figures. I mean, it is a hospital." He then hands me one of the Styrofoam cups he's holding: "Hope you like cafeteria coffee."

"How'd you know it was my favorite?" I joke, taking the coffee.

Brendon chuckles and then looks to his friend, fast asleep and breathing peacefully: "He looks...not as bad," he says, solemnly, "the nurse said they've got his fever under control."

"Mhm," I say, sipping on the coffee, "she came back while you were getting drinks to check his I.V."

"Did she mention when we might be out of here?"

I just shake my head in response. Brendon nods and leans back into his chair. He looks exhausted, not just physically but mentally as well. I've never been great at being the emotional support for someone; I just don't know how to react in those kinds of situations. But Brendon's been nice to me. I could at least try being 'glass half full' for once in my life.