Untold. // Phan

Chapter 34

When I opened my eyes, I was no longer at home. It was light, far too light. I closed my eyes again and now I noticed how incredibly bad I was. Shit, where was I?

At some point I heard a door open and opened my eyes. A young woman entered the room and slowly I realized where I was. Fuck.

"Are we awake?" she said gently with a slight smile when she saw that I was looking at her.

"Where am I?"

"In the hospital." She checked something on the bag hanging over me. My eyes went to my arm and of course there was a needle in it. You could see my scars, but I couldn't care less.

"I think I have to throw up." The next moment I had a kind of plastic bucket on my lap that I just threw up into. The nurse was helping me to stay seated. When I was done she just took the bucket away, while I tried to not just fall back into the pillow. I buried my hands in my hair.

I slowly remembered what happened a few hours ago.

"Do you need something, kiddo?" she asked and I shook my head.

"Why am I here?"

"You passed out. Has something to do with the drug. Triggered an overreaction in you, to put it simply."

"I didn't take drugs." I said sheepishly, as if anyone here believed me. I looked over at her a little unobtrusively, whereupon she just smiled at me sadly. "I fucked up."

"We all do stupid things." she tried to calm me down or cheer me up somehow. I tried to nod.

"Can I go home?"

"Rather not until tomorrow." she replied. "I'll let your father know you're awake."

Oh shit. A situation from which I couldn't save myself or talk myself out of it. Maybe I should just pass out again.

The nurse left my room and I was left alone on the bed.

Now the moment would have come when I would have pulled my sleeves down if I had them. Maybe I should just endure it.

Some time later my father entered the room and I wanted to bury myself under the covers. I could already feel the tears in my eyes and almost couldn't breathe.

"How are you feeling?" He asked as he sat on the edge of the bed.

"Like shit." I mumbled and tugged on the blanket. I didn't look at him, I couldn't. None of us said anything. In my head I only remembered the hours before when I almost punched my own dad for something he had nothing to do with.

I bit my lip, trying to hold the emotional back somehow. I didn't want to cry.

"Please don't hate me." I said at some point. The lump in my throat hurt and it wouldn't get better if I didn't start crying. So I just started and was just glad that my dad and I were alone in the room. "Please."

"Jesus Christ, Dan, of course I don't hate you!" He said and took me in his arms without a problem. I just let it go, let him hug me like I was a little child who just fell. And cried out everything.

"I'm sorry." And I said that about a hundred times and still it wasn't enough. Because what the hell was I like for a son? A son that drank, smoked, took drugs, almost hits his own father. A son who was psychologically completely fucked up and couldn't control his behavior properly. My dad kept telling me it was okay, but fuck him, it wasn't okay.

It had happened, there was nothing you could do about it, but it wasn't fucking okay.

"What did you think you were doing? Why did you take that stuff?"