by A.L. Bridges
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Cheza had gone to the bathroom to return her panties to their rightful place and had come back while I was lost in my memory.
“Wait, so how much of this was just you guys?” I ask.
“Well, she came by with a card and asked me to give it to you and have you call her… the card got misplaced though…” Cheza quietly says.
“*Sigh* That’s fine. I’m not really partial to girls that are four years younger than me anyway,” I say to her.
“At least not for another two years…” I’m tempted to add, just to annoy her.
“Anyway, get dressed and let’s go home. Sara’s getting you discharged now,” Tia says as she walks out into the hall.
Tia returns with a wheelchair and helps me out of bed. I walk into the bathroom with my bag of clothes and change before exiting and taking a seat in the wheelchair. Cheza wheels me out of the room.
“Mr. Treyfair, you’ve already been discharged so you’re free to leave, but you may want these once the anesthesia wears off,” the first nurse says as Cheza wheels me past the nurses’ station.
“Thanks,” I reply as she hands me a bottle of pills that say ‘Hydrocodone 5mg /500 mg,’ which I immediately slip into my pants pocket.
“You’re welcome. Take care!” the nurse exclaims as we leave
We exit the hospital and Cheza helps me into the back seat of the Mercedes GL SUV that Sara has waiting in front before Cheza goes around the car and gets in.
The ride home is silent, thankfully so, as I’m still peeved at both of them and don’t feel like talking. Plus, my stomach still hurts and a forty-five minute car ride doesn’t help. Sara pulls into the three-car garage and I gingerly exit the Mercedes. I carefully walk from the detached garage, across the asphalt driveway, and up to the front door.
“Okay, so Cole! We have a lot to talk about, but that has to wait until tomorrow when Kira gets here,” Tia says as we walk through the front door. That’s fine by me because I really don’t feel like talking.
I walk through the carpeted living room to the right, in between the eight-person couch that borders the perimeter of the room and the seventy inch flat screen, barely staying upright in the process. When I reach the threshold of the tiled hallway, I stumble and slam my left side into the basement door, causing the pill bottle in my left pants pocket to rattle.
“Ouch,” I calmly say through gritted teeth.
Cheza rushes over and helps me upright. She walks me past her bedroom on the right, the guest bathroom on the left, and finally into my room on the right.
“I think I can handle it from here,” I say once I sit down on the bed.
Cheza manages a smile through the barely contained sadness in her eyes. She turns and walks to the door, stopping at the threshold.
“Sorry,” Cheza quietly says and leaves, shutting the door behind her.
Well that’s just great! Suddenly I’m the bad guy and I have to feel like shit about it when I’m actually the victim! I strip down to my boxers and carefully lie down in bed, every movement sending shards of pain through my stomach. I retrieve the bottle of Vicodin from my pants pocket and pop a handful of them into my mouth. Probably not all too safe but fuck it. I need some sleep free from this whole mess.
The Vicodin fairy grants my wish of sleep, but I guess I should have been more specific because instead it gave me the one dream I fear most: the memory of the night of Jason’s death.
****