If Only I Knew How to Hate You

Alex

I turn off the radio on the way home, frowning slightly to myself. My eyes glance around in the dark night, and Georgie’s curled up in the seat, ready to fall asleep again. It’s barely eight but it’s dark out already.

Sighing I run a hand through my hair, feeling somewhat frustrated- but I can’t figure out why. Just… well, seeing Bailey- my Bailey- all hooked up to those machines… it was like they were literally sucking the life out of her. She just looked so exhausted and weak and confused… I guess I was just missing my girl.

We get home and Georgie immediately goes off to find his bed with Sebastian who complained for a while about not being taken to see Bailey- but I think its his fault he keeps growing and Georgie doesn’t- as I slump onto the couch. As it has for the last while, it’s too lonely and silent. Sure, Bailey sometimes didn’t talk that often, but you can always feel her presence…

A small idea creeps to mind and I figure, since I can’t sleep at the moment, I’ll do it. So I find a beer and head upstairs. Not to my room, but to Bay’s. I turn on her black lamp, the soft hum coming on. Her old CD player’s out as usual, so I turn it on and push play. Rod Stewart’s first album comes creeping on as I lay on top of her bed, staring at the ceiling.

Dunno what time I fall asleep, but it doesn’t really matter. All that matters is Bailey’s back. She’s really back.

She’s back.

The dogs are crying outside the closed door, whining for my attention when I wake up again. I wake up all of a sudden, but still extremely groggy. Fumbling around for clothes in my room, I let the dogs out and then get a cup up coffee. Running a hand through my hair, I check the time.

10:26 am.

“Cripes!” I mutter, and grab my keys and phone. Visiting hours started half an hour ago! I find some shoes and the bag I keep carrying around with stuff and head outside, deciding the dogs will be okay for a few hours in the back. They always are. Very amusing.

I feel somewhat disappointed as I step in the ICU room, Dr. Carter already talking to an awake Bailey. Or sort of awake. She keeps squinting between him and what appears to be a breakfast… ew. Looks like dog food, but… whiter… I nearly shudder as I step inside the room.

Dr. Carter shoots me an annoyed look then sighs. “I suppose you should be here, if you’re with her.”

“Got that right,” I mutter, putting my things down and bringing a chair over. Bailey yawns between a small smile, trying to be careful with her cut lip. I give her a sympathetic smile, brushing my finger on her cheek.

“All right, Bailey, let’s check up on you,” the doctor sighs, stepping forwards with his light. He continues to do the same thing as yesterday, asking her the same questions. She can’t exactly recall the last thing before waking up here except running, but he decides that’s enough, and excuses himself before reminding us that today is Tuesday and she should be out by the weekend.

“He annoys me,” Bailey sighs, watching him go, and rolls her head to face me. “The coffee’s for me, right?”

I raise my eyebrow. “Well… seeing as that baby food is what they give you, sure,” I smile and bring it over, helping her sit up. I fluff her pillows and she winces a time or two before leaning back enough to sit up right. “Are the painkillers helping?” I ask, concerned.

“Mostly,” she mumbles to me between sips. “But not completely. My haven, I look like an insane patient.” She sighs, putting the warm cup on her lap carefully, trying to keep her shaking hands calm.

“No, you don’t,” I murmur, taking the cup and putting her somewhat bandaged hands in mine. “You look like a survivor- and mighty pretty.” I lean forwards to kiss her.

“Careful,” she murmurs slowly. “My lip hurts.”

Our foreheads touch. “I’m so glad you’re back.”

“Me too.”

“The dogs missed you.”

“Mhm.”

“I’ll never let you out of my sight again.”

“I can live with that,” she mumbles, trying not to smile too much and suddenly curses under her breath. Warily, I step back. “It’s not you,” Bailey groans, covering her face with her hands. “Stupid bruises and cuts,” her words are muffled. And slurred?

“It’s okay,” I say softly.

She sighs, leaning back and yawns a little bit. “My head still hurts,” she says drowsily, turning to look at me. “And my wrists. And my back. And mostly my leg.” I glance at her leg, most heavily damaged. Pretty much torn the muscle, they said. She wouldn’t be able to walk on it for a few months.

“I’m sorry,” I squeeze her hand a little bit.

“So ‘m I,” she murmurs, fiddling with my fingers, so big compared to her own.

“Yeah…” I nod slowly. “The past?”

She nods before drifting off to sleep again. “To the past…”