When Hottie Met Junkie by Adam Woods, Ishita Garg (books to read to be successful .TXT) 📕

I stood against the window, watching the raindrops trace myriad patterns on the glass. Ominous darkness pervaded outside. A bolt of lightning seared through the skyline, followed by a roaring thunder, sending shudders down my spine.

I turned around instinctively to look at the inert body that rested on the bed. A zillion tubes ran all over the body, connected to machines of varying size and queerness. A cardiac monitor kept beeping at a corner, telling me that all was not lost. That maybe everything can be alright again. I looked at his face, and even though the respirator covered most of it, I knew I could catch the tiniest smile that he could muster. But there was nothing. No flicker of emotion. I sat down on a chair beside him and touched his hand. I felt a sense of déjà-vu…

“C’mon, Christine. Come inside. Your mom wants to talk to you.”

The little girl kept her eyes fixed on her shoes, holding her teddy tightly against her chest. She didn’t like hospitals. And she didn’t like the people who worked in hospitals. Injections, blood, huge machines, they all scared her.

Her father knelt down and held up her chin. “It’ll be alright, honey. We’ll all be there. Don’t you want to talk with mom?”

Christine gave a tiny nod. Her father smiled and stood up. He extended his hand at her. “Let’s do this together.”

“Christine?”

My trance broke, and I looked up. It was Jonathan Harris, our family doctor. He stood at the door, his brows knitted with concern.

“Are you alright, Christine?”

I quickly wiped my cheek to remove any traces of tears and stood up.

“Yea, I was just.. lost in some era,” I said, giving a weak smile. Dr Harris nodded at me and approached the bed to check the vitals. He was wearing a formal shirt and trousers with a white coat on. He was in his sixties, though he certainly looked younger. He was bald, and had been that way since I could remember. I even recalled my father once telling me he had been bald since he was a small boy. I made a mental note to ask him about it someday.

Dr Harris put on his half-moon glasses, and scanned through the screens for anything abnormal, or anything positive, for that matter. Then he examined the breathing with the help of stethoscope. It was pretty routine. After that he would check for pupil response and motor response. The results were the same every day.   

“He’s pretty much the same,” he said, removing his glasses.

I nodded and gazed at my feet.

“Christine, how do you feel?” Dr Harris asked, after moments of silence.

I blinked up at him, lost in my thoughts. “About what?”

“Your injuries, honey. “

“Oh, yes, I feel fine.”

“Okay, but let's get you checked up. Sit on that chair for me, please”

I did as he asked me to. He took out a tiny torch out of the pocket of his doctor's coat. “Look at me”, I heard him say, blinded by the light being shone into my eyes. I blinked hard and it took me a few seconds to regain my sight after he had checked me.

“Yes, you look fine,” he said. “Any migraines or headaches that you have been experiencing lately?”

“No, doctor. Just the scar of my surgery is still a little tender.”

“Oh, don't worry about that, it's completely normal,” he said. “Anything else?”

I shook my head.

“Well,” he said, with a warm smile forming on his mouth, “I declare you fit and fine. You can start going to classes.”

I returned the smile. “I intend to.”

“Alright. I better go and check on the other patients. Meet me in my office when you leave. We’ll talk about your dad,” he said, hanging the stetho on his neck.

I looked at the figure on the bed. “Sure,” I whispered.

After Dr Harris was gone, I sat down on the chair again and took his hand in mine. His wrinkled hand. He seemed so much older. As if years had passed away for him in a month. His breaths were long and silent. I knew he was there inside. But maybe he wasn’t fighting. Maybe he was just tired.

How could I even think like that?

I squeezed his hand and kissed it.

“C’mon, Dad,” I whispered, “Do this for me. Fight for me. You are not alone. Let’s do it together. Just show me something. Anything. Give me a sign.”

I leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “Happy Birthday, Dad.” And then I left, big, fat tears rolling down my cheeks.

“He has a pretty good chance, you know.”

Dr Harris was sitting on a huge chair - one of those revolving ones. His skin was alabaster white, which made the dark circles under his eyes more distinct. He leaned back on the chair, a smile plastered on his face.

I shrugged. I was tired of all the reassurances everybody kept heaping over me.

“Look, Christine,” he said leaning forward, hands on the table, “I have known your family for a decade now and you are no kid anymore. So I’ll be honest with you.”

“Okay.”

“I spoke with Dr Spellman – he’s the one who operated you and your dad – and he thinks the chances are 50-50 right now,” he said, as a matter-of-factly.

“That sounds bleak,” I blurted.

Dr Harris looked at me, his eyes wide, as if I had just confessed that I was in love with him. “Absolutely not! A 50-50 chance in case of a coma patient is very promising. You can’t lose hope like this.”

“I am sorry, doctor. I hope you’re right,” I said, nodding slowly.

“Well,” Dr Harris said, standing up, “Is Jenna coming to pick you up?”

“Yea, she asked me to call her when I was ready,” I said, searching for my cell phone in my bag, “I will just call – “

“No need, I can take you home,” he said.

Moments later, when we were speeding down the road, I looked at him and asked:

“Do you think he will return?”

He gave me a curt glance and kept driving. For a moment I could swear it was sadness in those eyes.

Jenna was the best. The absolute best. If I had a role-model, it was her. I loved her. And she doted on me. She was technically my aunt, but she was 26-years old only. So I just called her Jenna. My mother used to say that when I was born it was Jenna who held me first. She took me in her arms, pinched my nose and exclaimed: “Aww, I love her!” And sometimes I felt as if I still have that memory deep inside me.

I unlocked the door with my key and went inside. Home, sweet home. The flames crackled at the fireplace. I let out an inaudible yawn. The last month had been quite tiresome, for me and people around me. The surgery, the healing, it had taken a physical as well as emotional toll on me.

“Is that you, Chris?” came a voice from the kitchen.

I groaned. “Yes, Jenna. And please don't call me that, you know I hate it,” I said as I made my way to the kitchen.

She laughed. “I know, and that's what makes it more fun.”

I rolled my eyes at her. She was preparing dinner and looked frazzled, her hair tied up in a messy bun, wearing a pair of blue jeans and a pink t-shirt with a dirty apron tied around her waist. And yet she looked beautiful. She was a brunette, like me. And she was tall, svelte and two dimples popped out on her cheeks whenever she smiled. There was this aura around her that made people cheery. Sometimes, she reminded me of my mother.

 “What are you trying to make?” I asked jokingly. Jenna was, well, not that good at cooking. She was a journalist, and most of her life consisted of take-out dinners and skipped meals.

 She narrowed her eyes at me. “Lamb chops.”

“Yum,” I said and hopped off the kitchen counter and helped her plate up.

Suddenly, her face turned serious. “How's Martin?” she asked, her lips pressed together.

I sat on the counter and shrugged.

“Dad's still the same. Dr Harris said that there's a good chance he will make it.”

She nodded.

“It's his birthday today,” I mumbled.

In a second she was by my side. She gave me a tight hug and whispered soothingly in my ear, “It's all going to be fine, your dad will be fine.”

I wish I could believe that. I badly needed to believe that everything is going to be alright. That everything is going to be back to normal soon.

I was running. Past dark corridors. I looked around tentatively, still running. Doors with number plates swished past me. I passed by a glass door with the words ‘ICU’ painted in red. I was in the hospital. And I was running. I didn’t know why. But an unknown fear clutched my chest. I just knew I had to run. As if I was chased by a ferocious animal who gained on me with every passing second. As if there was no escape.

“Daddy,” I called out, but my voice made no sound. I couldn’t even hear myself running. And then I heard footsteps coming from behind me; long, distant strides. I turned back, but there was nobody. Suddenly, the strides turned shorter but louder and faster, as if the stalker had started running. My heart started thumping hard against I chest, and I started running faster. Tears streamed down my cheeks, making my vision blurry. “Daddy, where are you?” I screamed. Still muted. A familiar wave of panic washed through me.

Then I saw it. The wall. It came out of nowhere. I stopped right before I slammed into it. I turned around and saw the dark, silent corridor behind me. No one was in sight. My legs could no longer hold me up. I slid down, breathing hard. But instead of cold, hard floor, my knees met nothing. I was falling. Screaming and crying, I was trying to hold onto anything I could. But there was nothing around. The walls had disappeared, just darkness, enveloping me. And then, I wasn't falling anymore. I felt a pair of strong, firm arms, holding me. Strangely, I felt safe in those arms. “Dad?” I asked. I couldn't see the face. The darkness started to lift slowly and found myself in the arms of a stranger. A boy, with dark hair, brown eyes. I blinked hard. Those eyes seemed familiar; I felt as I could trust him. “Who are you?” I whispered, my words registering a sound for the first time. He opened his mouth and I heard him speak in a weird, distorted female voice, “Honey, Chris, wake up!” 

I woke up, startled. Aunt Jenna was in front of me, looking worried. As the realization that it was a dream dawned on me, I felt my damp cheeks with my hand. I wiped off the tears. 

“Bad dream?” Jenna asked.

“Yea. But not that bad.”

“Seemed pretty bad. You were literally thrashing your arms on the bed. Reminded me of The Exorcist,” Jenna joked.

I groaned and covered my face with the