The Interview

The door slid open automatically and I walked through it slowly. I was wearing the familiar and wonderful skinny jeans and t-shirt. The hospital gowns were too much of a plumber uniform to me, only instead of him showing his butt, it showed your whole back side from the middle of your back down. Didn’t that just spell out fun?

He was there, Jacob. Of course he was there. He never left my side at the bed, except once to use the bathroom. What did he care; he hates me.

The wind on the outside of the dreaded death counter, the hospital, was nice. Compared to being in a place ten degrees above my preferred temperature, the slightest breeze was heaven. I groaned at the sight of getting into his car. I offered to walk, seeing as how I was without a car, but I gave up after twenty minutes of intense arguing about my health and the condition I was in. He was driving, and that was final, he’d said.

He opened the door and I rolled my eyes. “Go away, I threw up blood, my limbs aren’t broken,” I told him, my tone harsh and playful at the same time.

“No. I’m going to do what I can for you.”

“You want to do what you can? Then you’ll get the hell out of here and leave me alone. You’ll never talk to me again. I’ve known you for six days and you’re tearing me apart.” I was surprised at the venom in my voice, surprised at the cursing.

He nodded. “I wont talk to you any longer. I’ll drive you home, then leave you be.” I scowled and stepped in the car, pushing off any arms he gave me for help.

Any words that came out of my mouth would have been acid on his skin, so I kept quiet. He kept his word and stayed quiet, not one single word. I wanted to hear his voice again, but I wasn’t going to admit it. When we got to my house I climbed out of the car as fast as I could and slammed the door. He stayed until he saw the front door of my house open then sped off, way above speed limit.

I walked straight into the bathroom, not caring who was home and where they were. I was pretty sure I was actually in such a rush that I forgot to close the front door.

My mind was scrambled and turning on me. I flipped the light switch on and looked at the mirror, then groaned and flipped it off just as quick. A hard blow to the cabinet by my foot and my fists slamming into the mirror, cracking and breaking off pieces right where I could see my face staring back. Pain stung in my hands and a warm liquid streamed down my arms, a different liquid down my cheeks, but I didn’t care. I kept smashing my fists into the wall harder and harder, the same exact spot. Finally, my brain calmed and my tears lightened. The pain was setting in, now that the anger was gone and not only was the mirror broken, my face shattered into a million tiny pieces, my hands were worse. Still in the dark, I opened one of the drawers and felt around for cloth. I found it and pulled it out as I leaned my head back against the broken mirror, wrapping the off-white cloth around my hands and wrists; it was long enough that it had to go to my wrists. My chest pushed further up and down, my breathing heavier and my eyelids collapsed. My mind was going on overload and it was all his fault.

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