I sat in the psych unit's male common area in a horrendously ugly green chair, my knees pulled up to my chest. They had determined I wasn't a danger to myself or others, which was due in part to my borderline sarcastic enthusiasm in being the "model patient". It had been almost 3 days, and my mandatory 72 hour hold was almost over.
I had gone to every therapy session without complaint, taken all of my pills from the tiny paper cups, and kept to myself. I had them reasonably convinced I wasn't going to step into traffic as soon as I walked out the door. I'm just a stupid depressed asshole with chronic pain and no social life, but not suicidal. I had the thoughts, sure, but I never made real plans or acted on them.
I really didn't want to get into the issues with my parents, since I had told the hospital and my assigned therapist they had died in a car accident. My lying was getting frighteningly good, and I was able to avoid digging up my carefully repressed and obviously fucked up feelings.
I stared out the window at the wet gray city, and watched raindrops race each other, combining and leaving trails down the large picture window. The weather would have normally made my shoulder and arm hurt like crazy, but I was luckily still on the good shit courtesy of the hospital. I love the rain, but it's been years since I've actually been able to enjoy it. I draped my good arm over a knee and sighed.
My thoughts wandered as I watched the cars down below, the start and stop flow of the intersection in front of the hospital's main entrance. Drugs and constant boredom made my eyelids heavy. They had taken my phone, so I had no idea what was going on out there in the real world. My eyes drifted downtown, where both Anderly and I lived. I had moved out of her place last year, and had been living by myself for the first time ever. It was not going as planned.
I turned my head the other way and looked around at the spacious room, at the fugly two-toned walls and the short, dull patterned carpet. A few of the ward's other residents milled about, some sitting in chairs, reading, playing cards. One older guy rocked back and forth in the corner, another talked to himself in a subdued voice, speaking to demons only he could hear. I felt bad for them. And myself. This place sucked, and mental illness sucked, and I just wanted to go home so bad.
The clock above the nurses' station read 5:16 PM. My only family now comprised of a smart college girl with strong personal views and an affinity for cafes and blogging, and a flamboyant yet genius tattoo artist who was also my boss. I put down both of them on my paperwork as emergency contacts.
I dozed in my seat as I watched the analog clock, the second hand ticking its way around the circle, tick, tick, tick. I almost jumped out of my seat when a nurse said my name. I'm the only Cosmo I've ever met, so it jolted me awake instantly.
"Huh?" I said eloquently.
She had one hand in her pale green scrub pockets, a clipboard in the other, and a smile on her face. She was probably as old as I am, just with a career and a promising future.
"You're being discharged. Your friend is here to pick you up!" Her voice was kind, at least. Some of the other hospital staff looked and talked to me like I was an irritating fuck-up who was just wasting their precious time.
"Oh. Thanks." I stood and covered a yawn with my good hand. "Do I need to check out, or-?"
"Yep, just take this paperwork to the desk out there in the main hallway and you can be on your way. Your friend has your belongings already. Oh, and show the guy at the doors there your wristband so he can let you out."
"Thanks," I glanced at her name tag. "Sarah."
She just smiled and stepped aside, sweeping her hand toward the doors.
A huge muscular orderly put his huge hand out for my wristband, scanned it with a phone-looking device, and then scanned the back of his nametag on the terminal beside the doors, saying nothing. They swung opened with a groan, and I could feel a tiny shiver of anticipation as I walked out into the main hallway.
"Anderly, I am so ready to-" I started. But Anderly wasn't the one holding a bag of my stuff and leaning against the wall, waiting for me.
Hex stared me down, his deep gray eyes piercing into my soul. Shit. I hadn't talked to Hex at all in the 26 days I'd been MIA, not since the party. My mouth felt dry, I swallowed. He always looked like a model/someone who could murder you and get away with it.
He was wearing a knee length grey overcoat with two rows of buttons down the front, with the collar flipped up. A dark blue dress shirt with a pattern of white cranes peeked out around the lapel of the jacket, the top button undone. His jeans were black and extra slim cut. He was even wearing pointed black leather loafers with two silver studs on the outside instead of his usual high heels. His silver hair was combed back in a way that looked effortless, even though I knew he took like two hours getting ready on any given day. His elegant slim figure felt out of place in the sterile white environment. He always looked super fashionable in and out of drag.
I saw a couple female nurses glance over at him and then turn to each other, giggling and talking in hushed voices. Sorry ladies. I thought, you're barking up the wrong super gay tree. He said nothing as I turned my papers in to the blushing nurses at the desk. I could feel his eyes burning holes in the back of my head. I turned to face him.
"Uh... hey." I didn't know what to say. What could I even say that would make up for this? For all he'd done for me?
He sighed "Let's go." I had never heard him like this in the almost five years I've known him. He sounded tired and sad, not his usual upbeat tone. Shiiiiit. He must be really upset with me. I know he has every right to be, after what I put him through, but-
He tossed the plastic drawstring bag at me and turned to go. He didn't so much as glance at me as we walked in silence down the wide hallway, and I lagged behind a little so he wouldn't see my worried expression. The elevator doors closed and we were left in close proximity in the tiny space, the only sounds the quiet elevator music and (probably) my guts churning. Hex was intimidating on a good day, but I could feel the tension between us making the air thick. We reached the ground floor and exited through a side door, down a covered walkway leading to a multi-level parking garage. The chilly humid air had that awesome rain smell, and cooled my burning face. I took several deep breaths.
Luckily we didn't have to go out in the rain, I didn't have an umbrella or jacket or anything, not that it mattered to me. I was wearing only a hospital-issued navy sweatsuit and some ugly plastic sandals (with socks). My regular beat up canvas high-tops were in the bag, the laces being too potentially dangerous to keep in the ward. I didn't dare stop to put them on with Hex walking stiffly in front of me, his slim tattooed fingers clenched into fists at his sides.
We got to his berry-red 68 El Camino and he unlocked the car, swinging his lithe body into the low seat. He kept his hands on the steering wheel and sighed as I got in too, closing the door behind me. He didn't start the car. He just sat there, staring straight ahead like maybe he was contemplating tearing me a new one.
I couldn't take it anymore. I looked at him.
"Hex." I started, looking for a reaction. "I'm... I'm sorry I- I didn't mean..." Ugh. This was hard, no words felt right.
He sighed again, but his tense posture softened a little.
"Cosmo." His smooth voice was calm. He looked over at me, his subtle makeup on point as usual. "I'm glad you're alive." He smiled, and my heart unclenched. I hadn't realized how much I fucking missed him.
He reached over the space between the black leather bucket seats and pulled me into a hug.
"You dumb asshole..." He muttered into my hair. I let out a laugh, but it morphed into sobs that I just couldn't hold back anymore, his strong hands wrapped me up and made me feel whole again. My voice shook as I cried, but I had to tell him something, anything to lift the sickening burden of my guilt.
"I'm sorry, Hex. I was just in so much pain, and I, I-"
"Hey." He cut off my rambling, rubbing my back, "We don't have to talk about this right now, okay? Calm down."
After a few huge breaths I got a hold of myself and sagged into his chest. He smelled like some expensive fragrance, bergamot, cedar and something warm, spicy and mysterious. I missed that smell, too.
"You smell great." I said softly, my voice muffled by his coat collar.
Oops. I didn't mean to say that out loud. There was a pause. He snorted. Then he started laughing, and then I started laughing, and then we were laughing so hard my sides hurt. We pulled apart and wiped the tears from our eyes as we tried to get our shit together.
"Oh my god, don't fuck up my mascara." He said, wheezing and dabbing his eyes carefully with a monogrammed handkerchief. his voice was back to it's usual joyful tone. "And I better smell great, this cologne cost me a hundred and sixty bucks."
"Wow." I said, feigning shock and settling back to buckle up. We were quiet as he started the old (but impeccably maintained) car up and pulled out of the stark concrete parking structure. I closed my eyes against the window, so freaking happy to be out of that hospital. But I let my guard down, which was a mistake, because then Hex said:
"But don't think for a damn second we aren't going to have a talk about this, sweetheart."
I groaned and sunk into the seat, trying to hide from the scrutiny of his perfectly winged eyeliner and bottomless steel gaze.
~
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