I (Don't) Need Your Forgiveness

I woke up the next time to find an IV in my arm, and a nurse sitting by my bed.
“Hi, there. How are you, honey?”
I looked at her with tired eyes.
“Well, you should start to feel better soon. We got all of that nasty stuff out of your tummy. It made you pretty sick, didn’t it?”
I nodded, barely.
“Sweetheart, do you remember your name?”
“Twiggy.”
She looked at me curiously. “Twiggy? Well, that’s a darling name. You certainly are a little slip of a thing. We’re all kind of curious, but please don’t take this the wrong way. What are you, honey? I mean, you came in wearing women’s clothes, but you’ve got a…”
“I’m a guy,” I admitted, not really fazed by the question at all.
“Who…wears women’s clothes?”
I smiled a bit. “I’m…well, I was…in a band.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“So, Twiggy’s not your real name?”
“No.”
“Do you have a real name?”
“Jeordie.”
“Well, Twiggy or Jeordie, whichever it is, you’re very lucky. You’re going to be okay. You’ll have to stay here for a few days while we give you some fluids and nutrients, but you’re going to be just fine.”
“Uh…the thing is, I don’t have any money.”
“Well, we won’t worry about that right now. You just concentrate on feeling better. You’ve got a pretty nasty infection from drinking dirty water and eating whatever was in your tummy.”
I yawned, and closed my eyes. I didn’t want to be in the hospital, but I didn’t really have any choice.