Page 137 of Habits

Questions. So many questions. I want to be angry at her. I want to scream and punch something, but the worry, the fear for her, for thebaby, is worst of all.

Is there even anything left to say?

Andrew

I take every shortcut I know, driving like a crazy man, and get us to the hospital in record time. Parking the car in front of the emergency exit, I stumble outside and start to run.

People call after me, cursing and yelling at me, but I ignore them. They can take the car, tow it away or do whatever the fuck they want with it. I don’t care.

Bypassing the elevators, I go straight to the stairs and climb two or three at a time. Max’s dad texted, saying they admitted her to the trauma ICU.

My lungs burn, and my muscles ache, but I don’t let it slow me down. I probably look like a mess and slightly insane, too.

Once I get to the fourth floor, I go straight to the nurse’s station. Two nurses—one older, one younger—are sitting behind the desk, chatting happily.

What the fuck are they so happy about? People die here; they shouldn’t be so chipper.

“Jeanette Sanders,” I pant as I reach them.

My hand flies to my burning ribs. I’m not sure if it’s the strain from Max’s beating and running up the stairs or if the fucker managed to break my ribs. He has a strong punch, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he actually did break them.

The nurses turn around, and when they see me, they exchange a short, worried look.

My tongue darts out to wet my lips and I can feel a coppery taste. Blood.

“Are you a relative?”

“She’s my girlfriend.”

“I’m so sorry,” the older one finally says. “Relatives only.”

Frustrated, I run my hand through my hair, pulling at the ends. I must look like a mess, but I don’t care.

Is she okay? Are they both okay?

Worry has been eating at me the whole way here, even more so since I found out it might not just be Jeanette who’s in danger.

“Screw you. I’ll find her myself.”

I turn around on the heels of my feet and start walking down the hallway, looking left and right for Jeanette’s room.

“Sir, you can’t …”

Her chair scrapes back, and I know she’ll soon be at my feet, so I hurry up.

Nobody is getting in my way.

There are patients walking around on crutches or using a walker. Quiet chatter and beeping of machines fill the air and give a sense of normality. The smell of antiseptic is strong, like in all hospitals, and it makes my already queasy stomach turn.

I peek inside the rooms. People are lying in their beds, some entertaining themselves while others have visitors, but there is no Jeanette.

Just when I think I took the wrong hallway, I see the slightly ajar door.

My heart beats furiously in my chest as I slowly push the door open.

Unlike other rooms, this one is quiet. Only the silent beeps of the machine resound in the sterile space.

Whiteness and stainless steel, and in the middle of it all, a bed.

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