Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

31 | Pop The Trunk

MIÉRCOLES
10:29 PM

Dahlia Gray

It was never a quiet night.

"No llevaste a nuestra hija al hospital. ¡Tenía que llamar a su amiga, su maldita amiga, para dar un paseo! ¿Qué clase de padre hace eso?" You didn't take our daughter to the hospital. She had to call her friend—her fucking friend—for a ride! What kind of father does that? My mother spat, her anger catapulting off her tongue for a taste of justice. She was heated at the hospital, subduing her anger long enough for her words to be crucified at home.

"¡Al menos yo estaba allí! ¿Dónde estabas? ¿Por qué no pudiste llevarla al hospital?" At least I was there! Where were you? Why couldn't you take her to the hospital? Why does the responsibility always fall on me? My father shouts back, his voice strong and bitter. "¡No puedes decir una mierda, Alejandra, cuando ni siquiera estabas allí!" You can't say shit, Alejandra, when you weren't even there!

My mother doesn't reply, stunned from his response. I could see the disbelief clouding her eyes, even from the comforts of my bedroom—because, how do you respond to that? How do you tell someone they're wrong when all their life, they've spent believing they vocalize the words of gods?

Of course my mother wasn't there, but I don't blame her. She was somewhere else, and she couldn't be reached—but my father could. He was downstairs, a couple of steps away, and all he did was sit on his ass and did nothing. He could've driven me to the hospital. But he didn't. That's on him.

I close the bedroom door behind me, muffling their argument. I cruise over to the edge of my bed, and fall to the floor beside it.

At the hospital, it was said I had a severe case of food poisoning. It was nothing too serious—thanks to the smart decision I made to go to the hospital—but it could've been. Since I have bad asthma, if I continue without taking proper procedures, I could've caught a lung bacteria in the midst of my throwing up or coughing. Everything would have panned out much differently had I left it alone.

I fidget with the phone in my hand, running my thumb along the edge of the case—debating on what to do next. The doctor said I should rest and rehydrate all the lost fluids I threw up, but neither options felt appealing.

I didn't want to go to sleep.

I didn't want to go downstairs either.

So, I just stayed here.

I stopped messing with my phone when a notification ping, and it was a message from Aysa.

Aysa: How do you feel? What did the doctor say?

          Me: I'm fine. The doctor said I need to rest and drink a lot of water. Something like Gatorade. Too bad the only sports drink around here is capri suns.

Aysa: Then go drink some water.

Me: No, it's fine. I'll probably drink some water later.

Aysa: Later? You need to hydrate now. Stop what you're doing and go.

Me: It's fine, seriously. Don't worry.

Aysa: The amount of hours you spent in urgent care says otherwise.

I smile.

Me: Thank you. Again. I don't know what would've happened if I didn't call you or if I blew it off.

Aysa: It's no problem. I told you, if you ever need me, I would be there. I'm not good at words, but I'm better at actions. Remember that. Be safe.