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SETH
“Seth?Seth!”
I groan, my head lulling from side to side. My head aches. It feels like my brain is swelling, nearly bursting out of my skull. With each movement to the left and the right, I can feel it sliding around, crashing against bone. Why do I hurt so much? My whole body feels weak. I can hardly move. I keep my eyes close, too weak to open them. My lips are parched. My tongue aches for water.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
I wince, the sound making my head ache even more. What is up with that annoying beeping? Is there a garbage truck outside? Did someone’s very annoying car alarm go off? Can’t they make it stop?
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Wait. Wasn’t I in the shower? Why would there be beeping in the shower? There isn’t a window in the bathroom. I shouldn’t be hearing anything. I pat myself, my jaw clenching when I feel something tugging in my arm. The sharp pain makes my heart jump into my throat. What’s going on? The water should be on, but I don’t feel it. Why do I feel so cold?
I open one eye, my vision blurring. Everything looks so white. It’s the only thing I can see. I open my other eye, groaning as the light briefly blinds me. Where am I? The walls are white. The blanket on me is white. Everything is white.
“Where am I?” I murmur while turning to my left, finding the machine that’s been making all the racket, the IV in my arm. My eyes widen. “Where the fuck am I?”
The door swings open and I’m faced with a guy dressed in a long white lab coat. The top of his head is balding and he wiggles his glasses while looking at the tablet in his hands. “Mr. Seth Garcia?” he asks without bothering to look at me.
“Y-yeah,” I say while sitting up in bed. Is this a dream?
“You had a fall this morning.”
I wince. I guess that makes more sense.
“You had a pretty bad gash.” His gaze slides to me and he pokes his head as if to show me where I’ve injured myself. “We had to put about eight stitches in you.”
“Eight stitches?” I breathe.
“You have a concussion. I suggest you spend the next week in bed.”
Shit. I can’t do that. I have a meet next week and I have training. “W-will I be okay? Can I still run?”
The doctor’s frown deepens as he stares at me, scrutinizing me. My hands clutch the blankets, pulling them closer as if to hide myself from his gaze. “You’ll be able to run in about a week.”
A week? Ha! I’ll give it a day. What is he going to do? Stalk me and grab me the moment I step foot out of bed? Doubtful. I nod. “Okay,” I murmur, already thinking of my running route for tomorrow. It will need to be a bit shorter. I’m not that stupid. However, that doesn’t mean I can run slow. I’ll just do a quick fifteen-minute sprint. That should be good enough for now.
“Do you have any idea why this happened?”
I grimace while shaking my head. “None at all.” I can’t meet the doctor’s gaze. I can tell he’s still staring at me. I hear his footsteps approaching my bed. My heart pounds harder in my chest, wondering if he can see what’s wrong with me. For something is wrong, I know that. This obsession with running isn’t healthy, but I don’t want to stop. I want to be the best. I want to prove to everyone that I’m not nothing. Sure, I come from a poor family, I don’t have the greatest clothes, and I don’t have the best grades.
But I’m a great track athlete. At least I have that going for me.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
I shrug. It’s hard to think. I remember my usual run and the shaking in my muscles, how I couldn’t run back to the apartment. I remember smelling Lucas’s eggs and wanting to stuff them into my mouth. I remember I gained a pound. That revelation makes my heart twinge with both anger and pain. How could I have let myself go so much? I remember the shower, the hot water.
“Mr. Garcia?”
I perk up, my gaze lifting and meting his. My heart stops beating as I gaze into that knowing look. He knows something is wrong with me. He can see it. I swallow the lump in my throat, not knowing what I can say to get him to believe me, to make him think I’m not sick.
“I-I went to take a shower,” I begin hoarsely. “And my vision went black. That’s when I fell.”
The doctor’s head bobs up and down. He’s still looking at me, still assessing me. “Did you do anything before your shower? Eat breakfast? Do any exercise? Were you drinking the night before?”
I shake my head. What’s up with his questions? I didn’t lie. I told him the truth. Why can’t he let it go? He knows how I fell. What more does he need? “I wasn’t drinking last night,” I say simply.
The doctor nods. “That’s good. Anything else?”
