Snuff

“Mine is the best! Mine is green!” Twiggy Ramirez laughed excitedly, spinning around with his sparkler. It was the 4th of July, one of his favorite days of the year, because it involved fireworks, and fire in general.
“You’re gonna light your hair on fire,” John 5 said tiredly, shaking out his gold sparkler as it burned down close to his fingertips.
“Mine’s red,” Pogo said with a snicker. Well, that was fitting.
“So’s mine,” Marilyn Manson chimed in, backing away from Twiggy, who was running towards him.
“Oh, mine’s blue,” Ginger Fish said softly, from his perpetual spot beside John.
“I want another one!” Twiggy shouted gleefully, trying to take the box out of Marilyn’s hand.
“One’s enough,” Marilyn replied firmly.
Bored with the sparklers, Pogo snuffed his out, and found a box of snaps. He tossed them all down at Twiggy’s boots, resulting in a deafening boom. He grinned as Twiggy jumped up into the air, terrified. “That’s what you get.”
Twiggy was so busy being frightened that he didn’t notice that he’d leapt right into Ginger’s sparkler. Not until the pain shot through his arm. He yelped, scurrying away.
“Are you okay?” Ginger asked worriedly, tossing the sparkler, extinguished by Twiggy’s pale skin, to the concrete.
Still holding onto his own sparkler, as Twiggy went to look at his arm, he brushed the sparkler up against his dress, igniting it.
“John! Get the hose!” Marilyn called to him, pushing Twiggy down to the ground, rolling him over.
“Ow.” Twiggy groaned, holding the arm that had been burned.
“You okay?” Marilyn asked as calmly as possible.
“I’m not sure.”
Coming back with the hose, John gave Twiggy a shower even though there was no longer a need for one.
Soaking wet, with a burned arm and a charred dress, Twiggy burst into tears.
“Twiggy?” Ginger asked gently, “Are you sure you’re not hurt?”
“What do you think, Ginge? Do I look all right to you?”
Ginger eyed his band mate. He was dripping water, clutching his arm, wet makeup running down his face, in a half blackened red and white striped dress. He definitely did not look okay.
“John, please go and get a towel for Twiggy,” Marilyn requested.
Dutifully, John nodded. He knew that he was the runner partially because he was the newest member of the band, and partially because Marilyn didn’t seem to like him all that much.
Pogo, who had been the cause of most of the drama, had gone off across the lawn to play with the box of sparklers. He had no intention of lending a helping hand in whatever was going on with Twiggy, and he saw no reason why he couldn’t still have fun.
John returned with a big, fluffy black towel. He handed it to Marilyn, and then returned to Ginger’s side.
“Here we go,” Marilyn said in a hushed tone as he wrapped Twiggy’s body inside of the warm, dry towel.
Twiggy didn’t struggle. He allowed himself to be bundled up, even though his arm was starting to really hurt.
Marilyn began to pat his friend down through the towel, trying to dry him a bit. When he got to the place the sparkler had extinguished, Twiggy let out a little cry. “Does that hurt?”
“A bit.”
“Okay. Come with me, to where there’s better light. Let me get a look at it.”
Slowly, Twiggy followed, stopping at the porch, where there was enough light for Marilyn to be able to see the damage.
“Oh, dear. That looks bad, Twigs.” The center of the burn had already begun to blister. “I don’t want to trust that some burn cream and a bandage will fix that. I want to take you to the emergency room.”
“It’s not that bad,” Twiggy protested. He hated hospitals.
“Well, we’re not taking chances. This tour has still got a ways to go.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I’m sure you will, but we’re going to have a doctor look at it, okay?”
“I don’t want to!” Twiggy whined childishly.
“Don’t make me carry you,” Marilyn warned.
Seeing that he wasn’t going to get out of this, Twiggy sighed in defeat. While he waited for Marilyn to return with the car keys, he tried to finish drying off the best that he could. His chest was starting to hurt where it had been burned, too.
Leaving Pogo, John, and Ginger to continue the celebration, Marilyn drove Twiggy to the emergency room. On the way there, he noticed that he seemed to be having a bit of trouble breathing. Maybe he was just upset that he’d gotten hurt.
Since Twiggy was up and moving, the admit desk shipped him out to the waiting room. He sat quietly on the uncomfortable chair, watching Marilyn fill out forms. He didn’t feel so well. Maybe Marilyn had been right to bring him to see a doctor.
Looking up from a form, Marilyn noticed that Twiggy was looking very pale and his eyes were getting dull. “What’s wrong, Twigs?”
“My…chest…hurts.”
“Like you’re having a heart attack?”
“No.”
“Tell me, and I’ll find a nurse or someone.”
“Just…hurts. Can’t…breathe.”
“Okay. Try to stay calm. You’ll be okay.”
The bassist was definitely having trouble breathing by the time Marilyn returned with a nurse.
“Does he have asthma?”
“No,” Marilyn answered, trying to take the towel away while he spoke.
“Oh, my. What happened?” She was obviously looking at the scorched fabric of Twiggy’s dress.
“Sparkler accident.”
“Sweetie, can you take your…dress…off for me? I’ll take you into a storage room if you’re embarrassed.”
Twiggy didn’t even try to strip, which was completely uncharacteristic of him. In any other situation, he would’ve jumped at the chance to take his clothes off in the presence of a woman.
“No? Well, I think we’d better take a look at you next.”
Marilyn took Twiggy back to the chairs, Twiggy’s breathing becoming more and more labored. The waiting seemed endless, but, it was the 4th of July. Of course other people had worse injuries.
Twenty minutes later, Twiggy was gasping for air. Marilyn couldn’t stand it any longer. He went back to the admissions desk.
“Look, my friend over there, he can’t breathe. Could someone please get him some oxygen? I’m worried he’s going to pass out.”
The woman sighed. “He’ll live another five minutes.”
Marilyn felt his jaw slightly drop. What kind of hospital was this? But, he had to admit, if he were in her shoes, the first person he’d help probably wouldn’t be a soggy guy in a burned dress, either.
Going back to sit with his friend, Marilyn gently rubbed circles on his back. “Just breathe. Take it slow.”
Twiggy was panting so hard that he really did sound asthmatic. The room was starting to spin around him. He knew that he was about to pass out.
“Shh,” Marilyn told him, rubbing up and down his back to try to keep him calm and steady.
“Jeordie White?”
Marilyn waved the intern over. Together, they helped Twiggy into one of the exam rooms.
“I’ve got him,” Marilyn said, carefully lifting Twiggy’s light body up onto the table.
The first thing she did was bring him an oxygen mask. Marilyn helped him with it, as he was barely able to keep his eyes open at this point.
“We’ve got to get him breathing before I can really look at him. Hon, can you hold out your arm for me? The left one?”
Twiggy turned his arm. The burn had blistered further, and was now a dark purplish red.
“That’s pretty nasty, isn’t it? We’ll get you all fixed up.”
Marilyn continued to hold the oxygen mask with one hand, rubbing Twiggy’s back with the other while the intern worked on the burn on his arm. By the time she had finished, he was breathing better. Well enough for her to be able to properly examine, anyway.
“All right, darlin’, let’s see what your chest looks like.” She cut the dress up the shoulders and across the midriff, revealing what looked like a massive purple bruise. “Oh, sweetie, no wonder you’re having trouble breathing. You compressed a lung.”
“How?” Marilyn asked, while she got out her stethoscope.
She listened to his chest for a moment. “Yes, it’s definitely deflating.”
“Will he need surgery?”
“I don’t think so. I’m going to try to reinflate it. We’ll see.”
She took out a long, scary needle, and jabbed it into Twiggy’s chest. He gasped for a moment, and then, his breathing became steadier, more normal. The bruising on his chest began to go away.
“How can he heal like that?” Marilyn asked.
“It’s not bruising. The color change was caused by lack of oxygen.”
In a few minutes, Twiggy no longer needed the oxygen mask, and seemed to be much calmer.
“That’s it, love. You just sit there and breathe for me. I think you’re going to be just fine.”
Marilyn sat up on the table with him, comforting him. He knew him well enough to know that he was in pain. “Can you give him something for the burn? Something to ease the pain?”
She looked into Twiggy’s eyes. “Does it hurt a lot, honey?”
He nodded.
“On a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst possible, how much does it hurt?”
“Seven.”
“All right. I’ll see what I can get you.”
While she was gone, Marilyn looked around the little room, trying to find something that looked like keys to the pill cabinet above the sink. He didn’t have any success.
“Here we go, sweet pea. This will fix you right up.” She gave him two large, white pills. He swallowed them with a little bit of water from the sink.
“I can’t see any reason to keep him here. You’re free to take him home.”
Marilyn thanked her, and led Twiggy out of the room. By the time they were at the exit, he was starting to weave around. “Okay, this isn’t happening. I’ll have to carry you, I guess.”
Twiggy gratefully allowed Marilyn to pick him up, carrying him in his arms. He was only vaguely aware of being laid on the back seat, belted in. He was sound asleep before they even left the parking lot.
Back at the house, Pogo had left to find his amusement elsewhere, and John and Ginger had cleaned up, leaving a note that they were going downtown to watch the fireworks display.
Marilyn took Twiggy out to the porch swing. Maybe they could see the fireworks from there.
It wasn’t long before the booms in the distance echoed through the night sky. Marilyn looked up to see the brilliant pops of color above the trees. “Twiggy? The fireworks…”
“Hmmm?” He was barely awake, certainly not interested in the light show.
After watching for a few minutes, Marilyn scooped his friend back up, and carried him to bed. He managed to get him out of his clothing and into pajamas. He tucked him in, and kissed his forehead.
“Marilyn?”
“What, Twigs?”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Just…thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“And Marilyn?”
“Yes, Twiggy?”
“Will you sleep with me tonight?”
He smiled. He usually only shared a bed with him when one of them was having nightmares or was really ill. “All right. Move over.”
Twiggy scooted his little body over, making room for Marilyn. It was funny, sharing his bed when Marilyn’s was at least twice as big.
“Goodnight, Twigs.”
The bassist murmured something, curling up beside his friend. It was going to be a long time before he wanted to celebrate the 4th of July again.