For a moment Brad opened his eyes. An unfamiliar face was looking down at him, wearing glasses and with dirty, tangled brown hair. Brad didn’t think she knew he was awake; she was looking through what had been the windshield, glee etched on her acne-ridden face. He drew in breath to call out for help, but some premonition stopped him, perhaps the total joy on her face, or the grim satisfaction in her eyes. He tried to stay conscious, but a black tide was rising behind his eyes, he was throbbing with pain, and he sank into it gratefully.
Brad stirred and opened his eyes. Harsh white light glared down at him, and he squinted painfully. His head felt unusually heavy. Raising a hand, he gingerly felt his forehead; it was wrapped in something soft. Looking at his hand, he saw that it, too, was bandaged. He tried to sit up, but the effort caused a surge of pain in his ribs. Instead, he lifted his head and looked around. All the walls were gleaming, and fluorescent lights were everywhere. It was all painfully bright. On his other side, his mother was in a recliner chair, chin on her chest, dozing. As if she sensed her son’s movement, she sat up suddenly.
“Brad? Oh thank Heavens.” She muttered. Then in a louder voice she continued, “Doctor Walker? He’s awake! Dr. Walker?” She reached out for Brad’s uninjured hand. “They didn’t know if you were going to wake up. You’re very lucky.” Brad didn’t feel very lucky; every part of him ached or throbbed and the glaring brightness was giving him a horrible headache. But, looking at the tears swimming in his mother’s eyes, he didn’t say anything, just nodded stiffly. Just then, a old man with tufts of hair on the side of his head, and a stomach protruding slightly from the starch white uniform, bustled into the room, surrounded by nurse aides. Without even glancing at Brad, the nurses began scurrying around, taking long sheets of paper from machines that beeped and flashed rhythmically, or scribbling furiously on clipboards while reading a heart monitor.
The old man walked over to Brad. “Brad? I’m Dr. Walker. How are feeling today?”
“Mm-fine,” Brad whispered; his tongue felt swollen and his mouth was too dry. He wiped his tongue over cracked lips. “Water?” Immediately an old nurse hustled over with a tall glass of water. She forced it into his good hand and hurried away, clicking her heels on the linoleum floor.
“A little sore?” Dr. Walker asked. Brad just nodded. “You will be for the next few months; still, you’re very lucky to have survived.” Brad downed the water, grunting noncommittally as Dr. Walker spoke. Suddenly, he remembered what day it had been when he had the crash.
“What time-it? I’m miss party!” he slurred. Dr. Walker looked confused, so Patricia spoke instead.
“Don’t worry Honey; it’s Monday. The party was two days ago.” She teared up again, and Dr. Walker explained.
“You were in a coma. It’s very lucky Molly happened along, or it may have been hours before anyone found you. By then there’s no telling what state you would have been in.”
“Who Mm-lly?”
“You don’t know her?” Dr. Walker looked genuinely surprised. “She gave the impression you two knew each other.”
Brad tried to contemplate that, but thinking made his headache even worse. As if they could read his mind, a much friendlier nurse scurried over and dropped two aspirins on his table. She smiled and hurried off again. Moving slowly to minimize the intense pain, Brad swallowed the aspirins. Dr. Walker muttered to a nurse, and she hurried off. Minutes later, she returned with another handful of assorted pills that Brad couldn’t even begin to guess at. She set them down and walked away. Dr. Walker told Brad they were painkillers. Brad swallowed them.
Dr. Walker stood up, indicating with his hand that Patricia should do the same. She rose reluctantly. “We’ll leave you to sleep,” Dr. Walker explained, and the two walked out of the room, leaving behind only the almost frenzied nurses. Brad gratefully closed his eyes and sunk into sleep instantly.
When Brad next woke, he felt much better. His headache had diminished, and the white walls no longer glared at him. The pain had dulled to a low, steady throb, barely noticeable. He sat up, wincing at pain in his head, and looked around. The room he was in was small and square, almost cozy looking, with two plush armchairs near the bed and several more along the nearest wall. Nurses were still bustling around, but not quite as many. He was hooked up to a heart monitor; an IV was stuck in his uninjured left hand. His right was in a cast. So was his head, and bandages were plastered along his ribcage and stomach. Raising his left hand, he felt stitches along his cheek.
Brad’s stomach growled; the last thing he remembered eating was the pancakes from breakfast on Saturday, and that was at least two days ago. The door banged open. A harassed looking nurse poked her head in, “Oh, you’re awake.” Looking over her shoulder, she said, “He’s awake, I suppose you can go in.” She sounded clearly reluctant. She hurried off, and three guys took her place.
“Hey man, you missed my party! Becca and Keren were looking for you!” Christian called loudly. Brad saw his arm was no longer casted. Kent rolled his eyes,
He’s lying. The party never even happened. We heard what happened and rescheduled. It’s next weekend and you’re coming to this one if we have to bust you outta the hospital.” Christian laughed. The guys were being too loud; nurses shot them aggravated and disdainful looks.
“You assholes shut up or you’ll get kicked out,” Brad growled. Arik smirked.
“Now, now, Bradley, there is no need for that kind of language. You’ll break you’re poor old grandmother’s heart.” He squeaked in a very accurate imitation of Brad’s grandma. Arik was close to the bed; Brad reached out with his left hand and slugged him across the shoulder. He grasped his shoulder in mock pain and ell to the floor, writhing and moaning. Christian watched with a smirk, and when Arik stood up, grinning, he said, “You know, you really outta go out for acting some day.” Arik grinned even wider.
The pissy old nurse who had brought his water came up behind the three visitors. Scowling deeply, she said, “I’m sorry, but Brad needs rest,” she didn’t look very sorry. “You’ll have to leave.” She led them to the door and closed it behind them, then turned back to Brad. “You should be sleeping, not messing around with rowdy boys who will only deprive you of much needed recovery time.”
Brad opened his mouth to argue, but Dr. Walker came in. He saw his patient and nurse glaring at each other, and stepped in quickly. “Bee, don’t you have charts to deliver?” The burse scowled even deeper, spun around, and marched away. Dr. Walker turned to Brad. “Do yourself a favor and don’t talk to her. Now, are you up for eating?” Brad nodded eagerly. Dr. Walker pushed a button, and a new nurse bustled through the door, carrying a food laden tray, which she placed on the bedside table. Brad thanked Dr. Walker, who nodded and left the room, then ate.
* * *
Brad opened his eyes. Sunlight streamed through a large window, but for once he could look at it without getting a headache. He sat and stretched; his ribs were almost completely healed. His head has also been unbandaged, and in two days he would come back to get the stitches from his forehead and cheek removed. Only his casted arm would stay that way for about a month. Brad suddenly remembered that he was going home today. Excited, he got out of bed and walked to a far chair, where the remote was laying (his father had come to visit yesterday) and sat down. The TV was, for some reason unknown to Brad, playing a Scottish band squeaking away on bagpipes. Brad quickly muted it and changed the channel. News, SpongeBob, golf, programs Brad couldn’t even begin to guess at.
Finally, a decent looking show was on. Something supernatural. A teenage guy was driving a beat-up Pontiac. That’s weird, Brad thought. That looks a lot like my car. The camera zoomed in as the driver stared over at the empty passenger’s seat. He was muttering something, but Brad wasn’t listening, his blood had just run cold. That’s me, he thought. That’s me driving my car coming back from Brittany’s house. The Pontiac drifted into the other lane as an eighteen-wheeler came around a bend. The driver, Brad looked up suddenly, scared. He swerved back into his own lane, losing control, bumped off the road. Brad barely noticed, he just kept repeating that thought over and over, that’s me, that’s me, I don’t know how, but that’s me.
The car crashed into a tree. A lone figure, shimmering in the sunlight, hurried to the car. When her face became clear, Brad snapped back to attention. He recognized that face. It was the face he had seen, barely conscious, looking out through the shattered windshield. The face that had been so pleased to see him lying there, apparently dead. The girl that was somehow, Brad was sure, connected to his almost dying.
TO BE CONTINUED…
. I like your characters, and the whole reliving-the-crash-on-T.V. thing was pretty cool; like being taped in a hotel and later seeing it (I watched this show about urban legends the other day. It was wicked! Lol). Anyway, great job. I like the ending. Very nicely done. 
"...was rising behind his eyes
)
