The Quiet of Compazine

“No, really, I feel fine now,” I told my manager after guzzling down a milkshake.

I made to stand back up, but he just pushed me back down into my seat. “Porter, don’t. Why didn’t you tell anyone that you were feeling faint? Why did you come to work today? Go home and rest.”

“But I –“

“Go home and rest,” my manager ordered, so I grudgingly got back in my car and drove home. My sugar rush lasted me until the driveway, thank goodness. I finished off my lukewarm frappucino before going inside and flopping onto the couch. Dad wasn’t home yet. I popped open my bottle of compazine. It was a lot fuller than it should be, unfortunately. I counted out all the pills I missed and took them all at once so my dad wouldn’t get suspicious.

I started feeling really sleepy, though, so I laid down on the couch, still in my uniform from work. I was almost asleep when my dad shook me awake. “Porter! Porter, wake up. You know you shouldn’t be napping on a school night,” he scolded.

I rubbed my eyes and sat up, alarmed at the drool leaking out of my mouth. I pulled up my shirt to dry my face, glancing at the kitchen clock. I’d been asleep for over five hours. It felt like five minutes! “You just got home?” I asked, coughing a bit. How odd that I was drooling but my mouth felt dryer than Death Valley. “What do you want for dinner?” I asked, swinging my legs off the couch and getting to my feet.

I almost immediately sat back down. I was really, really dizzy for some reason. “What’s wrong with you, Porter?” asked my father worriedly, holding onto my shoulders to steady me.

“I don’t feel so…” I trailed off, slumping into my dad. He lowered me back onto the couch before calling 911. “No,” I protested, the dizziness and lightheadedness persisting. “Dad, this is nothing. I just need some sleep, and I’ll be fine.”

He got off the phone a few minutes later. “An ambulance is coming. You’re gonna be fine, alright, Porter?”

“I don’t need an ambulance,” I sighed loudly, massaging my temples. The thought of the incoming medical bill because of this little incident made my head hurt even more than it already did.

“Do you know why your eyes are yellow?” Dad asked, his voice shaky. I opened and closed my mouth without saying anything. “Yeah, me neither. That is why we need an ambulance, Porter.”

Dad rode in the ambulance with me. Thankfully, they didn’t strap me down to a bed or anything, thankfully. They took my vitals and looked at my eyes a lot, shining lights in them and making me open them nice and wide. “Please, that’s just making me dizzier,” I panted, closing my eyes when they brought the flashlight up again.

“You’re gonna be alright,” Dad murmured into my ear as he put an arm around me.

I couldn’t quite walk when we arrived at the hospital. The hospital staff had to pull up a wheelchair for me because the dizziness was crippling. A few hours and a stomach pumping later, I was feeling normal amounts of sleepiness. Turns out I overdosed on my compazine.

Dad got so mad at me, yelling at me for being stupid and suicidal. That wasn’t even it. I was just trying to make up for everything I missed lately…I guess I couldn’t make it up all at once. Maybe that was a little stupid on my part, but I certainly wasn’t suicidal. I was angry that he assumed I was and remained silent through his angry monologue. He left me at the hospital for the night, too.

I couldn’t sleep well at all. There were so many noises – water dripping from the sink, the ticking of the analog clock, the air coming in through the vents. The moonlight coming in from the blinds cast some weird shadows on the thing in my hospital room, too. I had my phone, though, so I plugged in my headphones, pulled up the sheets until they covered my eyes, and fell asleep listening to some Tears for Fears…

I almost wish I hadn’t woken up, though. Almost.

John breathed a sigh of relief. “Jesus fucking Christ, Porter.”

“What are you doing here?” I asked in horror, sitting up in bed. I winced at the sunlight. “What...what time is it?”

“It’s a quarter to noon…and it’s Tuesday,” John said flatly, his lips set in a hard frown. “What the fuck happened, Porter?”

I think that was the first time I’d ever heard John swear. Well, not really, but it felt like he was swearing at me, and it was kind of scary. I think it was just the way he yelled it at me that got to me. John sighed, dragging his hand down his face, but he grabbed my hand and kissed my knuckles. “Porter, don’t. Please don’t cry.”

“I’m sorry,” I gasped out, covering my face with the pillow. “I just… just, please…Don’t be mad at me, John. Not you, too. I can’t. I can’t…”

John pulled the pillow away and leaned closer so he could hold my head in his hands now, brushing away the cheeks on my tears with his thumbs. “I’m not mad at you, Porter. I’m not mad. Why would I be? You just… you missed our date, you loser,” John teased, shaking my head a bit. “Not to mention, you worried me so damn much… I’m gonna tell Pat and Garrett you’re finally awake,” John decided, pulling away from me to grab his phone off the bedside table and send a text their way.

“Scoot,” John commanded as he got to his feet. Making sure the IV stayed in my arm and didn’t hurt too much, I scooted over onto one side of the bed, lying on my side to make room for John. John wriggled one of his arms under my neck and held me close, his other arm loosely draped around my waist. “It’s nice to hold you again,” John said simply, his words accompanied by a contented sigh.

“…Is it really Tuesday?” I asked, toying with John’s long fingers. (I bet you didn’t expect that.)

“Yeah…you were in a coma for the weekend,” John informed me. “It was the most terrifying…” John swallowed hard. “I, uh, I called you a lot on Saturday, and you weren’t picking up, so I thought maybe you were mad at me for not telling you what we’d be doing, but then Pat and Garrett said they didn’t get in touch with you, either, and I tried the place you work at, but they said you hadn’t been in and you went home sick on Thursday and didn't show up any day after that, then I dropped by your house yesterday when Pat and Garrett said you weren’t at school, but your dad was there, so we ended up having a long talk instead.”

It was like John said all that in one breath. “Oh, no… my dad…what did he say to you? Did he give you the usual, ‘Break her heart and I’ll break your balls’ speech?” I asked, laughing at my own words. My dad didn’t care enough about me to do even that.

“No, actually. He, uh. We talked about things. About you and me. He asked me who I am, basically, and how long we’ve been seeing each other, and other things of that nature, because apparently you’ve never told him about me,” John scoffed, sounding insulted. I just smiled, though. “I was surprised he’s so chill with our age difference. I was even more surprised he’s so chill with me being in a band, which I am dropping out of college for…He didn’t flip out on me and forbid me from seeing you or anything, and he didn’t say ‘Good luck with that’ all sarcastic and shit like most people do, Porter. He said he wishes our band the best of luck, and he fucking meant it,” John whispered in awe.

“Well. That’s good,” I said slowly, unsure of what exactly to say now. That didn't sound like my dad.

“The one thing he said to me about us, though, Porter, was just… It was, uh, hold on, let me remember… Oh, yeah. ‘Thank you for making my daughter happy.’ Yeah, that was it.” I blinked a couple of times, wondering if what John had said was true. How would Dad have even noticed…? “Do I make you happy, Porter?” John asked quietly, nuzzling my neck. I could only nod. “I bet I don’t make you as happy as you make me,” John chuckled, pulling the sheets up onto us before I hugged his arm to my chest.

“Sing to me?” I asked, ignoring John’s smug laughter.

John's laughter ceased and he cleared his throat. "What do you want to hear?"

"This song," I said as I held up my iPod to him.