One Last Thing ✅

eighteen things

In the hospital, it's hard to keep of track of time. Not that I'm in a hurry or anything, the alternative being a jail cell. I ask the nurse to close the curtains so I can rest.

I sleep. And sleep. And sleep.

When I finally wake up, a new nurse has written her name on my board. This one is Krissy. She looks exactly like her name sounds. Thin, blonde hair pulled into a high ponytail, lots of lip gloss, nails done in a perfect french manicure. I bet no one ever gets her name wrong.

Krissy explains that Grams went home to shower and fetch some clothes for me. She smiles, but the sentiment doesn't reach her eyes. I wonder if she heard about what I did.

Murderer, I imagine her thinking as she checks my vitals.

Monster.

"Would you like to watch some television?" she asks brightly.

I don't respond.

Krissy picks up the remote, turns on the TV, and flips to MTV, which I'm sure she thinks I'll enjoy. The program is called Made. It's about a girl who wants to lose weight to get a boyfriend or be prom queen or some shit. My version of hell is lying in a hospital bed, watching reality television. But I leave it on.

Because this is a hell of my own making.

About ten minutes later, Krissy comes back into the room. I wonder if she has another pill that will grey everything for a while, erase my existence for a few hours. But her hands are empty.

"A friend is here to see you," she says.

Abbott.

He's carrying an iPod. "I thought you might be bored," he explains, setting it on the table beside my bed. I study the little machine, thinking of the songs I loaded my own iPod mini with, the one Gram saved up to get me for Christmas a couple of years ago. Maybe Abbott's kind of a genius.

"So you heard about Mrs. Edwards?" I ask.

He looks away, hands thrust deep in the pockets of his jacket. He doesn't have to say anything. I can see it in his face.

"Sit down." I gesture toward a chair on the side of my bed. He drops into it and starts watching the program, not seeming to mind it.

We don't talk for a while.

On the show, an MTV-appointed personal trainer makes the chubby girl run up and down a field about a million times. Then there's a shot of them in a ridiculously expensive-looking kitchen, making a smoothie with some spinach and egg whites.

My stomach twists.

At the end of the episode, the girl comes down the stairs in a blue sequined gown, her hair swept into an elegant updo. She has lost sixty pounds in three months. Her parents, the personal trainer, and her brand new boyfriend applaud. No one comments on the huge circles under her eyes or the way she can't seem to focus enough to put a sentence together.

"She looked better before," Abbott says, tilting the hospital chair back. He kicks his feet up on my hospital bed. Everyone else who comes in here seems afraid of touching my bed, like if they jostle me I'll keel over and die or something.

Not Abbott.

I try to think of what to say.

Something normal.

"How's school?"

Abbott pulls his feet off my bed, sits up straight. He squirms, and I can tell he's trying to figure out how to answer my question without talking about the accident... or Mrs. Edwards.

"It's okay," I say. "I can handle it. Tell me the truth."

Abbott looks at me for a long moment before answering. "Well, to be honest, it's just weird. People are crying a lot."

"So does everyone, like, hate me?"

"Jesus, no, Lil. It's not like that. I think everyone's just really shaken up. I haven't heard anyone say anything mean. Most of the comments have been about how weird it is to see someone one day and then, the next thing you know, they're gone. I mean, you know. Death is messed up. People are hurting."

For the first time since I heard the news, I allow myself to think back to my last conversation with Mrs. Edwards. How she looked when she was crying, and how it was kind of shocking to me, to see a teacher like that.

And now she doesn't even exist anymore.

That's when the tears come, fast and hot.

Abbott gets out of his chair. He sits gingerly next to me on the crisp white sheets, awkwardly stretches his arm around me.

"It's going to be okay," he says.

The comment, so insanely ridiculous, makes me giggle. "Really?" My voice is bitter. "Oh, you don't say? How many people have you murdered lately? Please tell me. Shower me with your sage advice. How long does it take after killing someone before you get okay with it?"

His limbs tense.

I think he's going to leave.

I mean, I would.

I am a bottomless pit of despair, and if he gets too close, he'll fall right in.

But instead, he looks at me thoughtfully. "You're right. I have no idea how you feel." And then he is quiet. We both just sit there for a while, not talking.

It's just what I need.