Page 334 of Vicious Saint
In a matter of seconds, Carlo was stripped from the earth in the most brutal way possible.
And if it wasn’t for me stopping, I may have been too.
I realize something, and a violent wave of nausea stirs in my gut, quickly rising, turning to vomit spilling onto the pavement.
Because Carlo was right. His necklacedidprotect me.
And it would’ve protected him, too, if he never gave it to me.
Propped on my side, I’m flying as a ceremony of squeaky footsteps pry my eyes open, allowing the darkness to slowly fade into a bright string of lights.
Then, they’re closing.
Opening.
Closing.
With only small glimpses of clarity in between:
The smell of bleach.
Jolting. Rattling of wheels.
Beeping.So much fucking beeping.
“Jimi! Stay with me!” Saint’s voice breaks through the mental fog, and when my eyes blink open I find him still in uniform, running alongside the hospital bed. “Stay the fuck with me, baby! Please.”
“Letterman,” I mumble with tears spilling across the bridge of my nose. “Carlo…he’s…he’s…gone,” is all that comes out before darkness steals me away, the rest of the scene playing out in muddled clips.
Blink—Saint apologizing, kissing my forehead.
Blink—Saint begging me not to leave him.
Blink—Saint begging me not to leave him again.
Blink—Saint screaming at someone when he’s told to stay behind.
Blink—Saint getting tackled by two security guards.
Blink—Saint’s gone, and I’m being pushed through double doors.
The moments following are no less disjointed.
With doctors and nurses, stripping, poking, and shouting demands in frantic successions.
From what I can gather through consciousness, multiple shards are embedded in my back, blunt force trauma, and a possible something called cerebral edema.
Don’t know what the last one means, but it scares the fuck out of me enough to sober me a notch.
I look around the room and call out for the only semi-calm nurse I can find, who’s pulling supplies out of a drawer. “Please…” I croak. “I’m really scared. I need my boyfriend here.”
“Don’t worry, sweetheart.” She takes hold of my arm, then proceeds to tap my inner elbow. “We’re gonna take good care of you.”
“Please…don’t let me die without Saint.”
“You arenotgoing to die,” she responds, firm. “Not at eighteen. Not on my watch.”
More demands get thrown around above me, including the dosage and name of whatever medicine she’s flicking in a needle syringe.
