Pretty as a Car Crash

Don’t ask if you don’t want to know

I sit down on my bed, tucking my feet underneath myself and fingering the note. “How did you get into my suitcase?” I ask it, wishing it would be able to give me all the answers. I stare at the paper for a while, rereading it a few times. If he was trying to make a joke or make me feel better by saying “I’ll be watching”, he failed epically. Getting up, I walk to the window and look out it. The paved street outside looks normal, with cars parked along the curb. No one’s on the sidewalk and the trees are standing still, colorful leaves decorating them. Nothing looks suspicious, but nonetheless I close the curtains. It’s already one-thirty and I don’t know what to do with myself.

I look down at the piece of paper in my hands. It’s starting to get wrinkled and the moister from my hands isn’t helping. I gently set it down on my vintage desk like it was made of porcelain. I take a step back and put my hands on my hips, my fingers pointing towards the small of my back.

To call or not to call, that is the question.

Half of me wants to hear his voice again because, no matter how much I may vocally deny it, I miss him. We had grown close in a short period of time and he was my best guy-friend. Plus, I really wanted some resolve like; does my appearance have something to do with Chrissie biting me? I get a shiver down my spine, but I quickly shake it off. But my other half, the more reasonable half, said not to. That I should leave all of this behind me and move on as quickly as possible.

But since when has it been fun to be reasonable? You don’t get closure being reasonable.

I start pacing, wishing, for once, that Mom would make this decision for me. Sighing, I sit back down on my bed and start unfolding and refolding clothes again.

You are not going to get answers by unpacking. Call him!

Giving into my not-so-good judgment, I pick up my cell phone. Sliding it open, I slowly dial the number, already having memorized it. I listen to the ringing, hoping that he wont answer, but when does that ever happen?

“Hello?” Ashton inquires a moment later, sounding somewhat out of breath.

It takes me a minute to pull myself together, but when I do, the words come easily. “I got your note. How did you get it into my suitcase?”

Ash’s end is quiet for a second before he speaks. “I’m glad you got it. I was hoping that you would call. How have you been?”

Not willing to get deterred, I ask, “How did you get the note into my suitcase?”

“I have my ways.” There’s a smirk in his voice and Ashton’s breathing has become regular again. I’m quiet and he sighs. “May I talk to you in person? It would be easier; that way you can see what I’m really saying. Over the phone you can only hear my voice, but you’re missing my expressions and body language.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. All I want are some answers.” My tone is stern, but inside I’m nervous and I’m physically shaking. What if tells me something I don’t want to hear?

If you don’t want the answer, don’t ask the question.

“Alright. I don’t want to make you doing something you don’t want to do. Ask away.” His tone is gentle and my heart beats just a little bit faster at the sound of it.

I settle myself down unto my bed, nestling in between some pillows. “How did you get the note into my suitcase?” My voice is even and I’m no longer shaking.

“When your father, brother and sister were moving some of the luggage to the car, I came in through the window. Cliché, I know, but it was the only way to not draw attention to myself. Everyone was in class at that time and the people who weren’t were too stoned or plastered to notice. Besides, Maria left it open.” Ashton’s voice is still gentle and it reminds me of the time we were walking home after eating out at the Japanese restaurant.

I sigh. “Alright. Um…my physical condition. I’m really pale, I have bruises, I’ve been really tires, and everything cold feels great, unlike before.” I feel like I’m whispering. Clearing my throat, I wait for Ashton to respond.

“Well, Jessie, you have been in the hospital for loss of blood.” He says this in a gentle, but almost mocking, manner.

I huff. “I realize that, Ash, but was just wondering because it seemed abnormal.”

“Be more specific. If I was there…” he trails off, but I know exactly what he would have said.

Ignoring this last comment, I begin describing how my skin seems to get paler everyday, that, although there are few, my bruises are about the size of a fifty-cent coin and are in places where Chrissie hadn’t touched me such as my feet and lower back. I tell him about how I woke-up at twelve o’clock after a fifteen hour sleep and I still feel tired; how when I touch a cool surface live tile flooring it feels good, not cold like it had been before, but normal, like that’s my body temperature.

Ashton is quite during all of this, no doubt taking it all in and is silent on the other end. “I want to know why Dr. Cinick didn’t say anything about this.” I add, hoping that it will bring him to speak up. Sure enough, it does.

“She wouldn’t know about the cold surface part or the bruises part because one, you weren’t getting out of your bed except to go to the bathroom and two, you were wearing socks, sweat pants, and a sweatshirt for most of the time you were there. The paleness can be attributed to having blood loss and florescent lighting, so that’s probably why she overlooked it.” Ashton’s voice is no longer gentle, it’s authoritative. If he was sitting beside me, I would guess that his facial expression would be one of either deep thought or puzzlement.

“True.” I mumble, recognizing that if I hadn’t freaked out and taken a moment to think about it rationally, I could have figured that out.

“Although,” Ashton pulls me out of my thoughts and I take a sudden breath in, “it sounds like you are showing the effects of being turned…”

Him trailing off like this is beginning to bug me.

“Why do you sound confused?” I ask quickly, not allowing myself to soak in what he had just said. Ignoring it, for now, would be fine.

“If you had been turned, it would have happened sooner and more quickly. It’s been almost an entire week since Chrissie bit you and only now does it sound like your changing.” Ashton’s tones of voice fluctuate and I wonder what he’s thinking about. I sit quietly, thinking about nothing and everything all at once. “Jessica?”

“Ha-have they caught…Chrissie y-yet?” I question. I’m now physically shaking and the only way I can keep my mind off of this news is to keep it busy with other things; whether they be important or not.

“No…Jessica, are you okay? Just take a deep breath. Everything will be fine.” Ashton’s concern would have touched me any other time, but when one is attempting to not be thrown into the depths of hysteria, niceties such as a hint of concern in someone’s voice are lost on them.