Chapter 127

Adrian

Is it bad of me to take my time in a situation like this? Is it bad of me to slowly put on my shoes, to take every second necessary to tie my shoes, to grab my keys into slowly walk out to my car? Am I a bad person for driving the speed limit instead of rushing to the hospital after hearing that my ex lover is in the hospital because she tried to kill herself?

In most situations, I would say that I am a bad person for doing something like this, but this is Clara that we are talking about. She is somebody who has lied multiple times about being sick and being injured, that things have been stolen from her from right underneath her nose, and is the same person who fills out threats of suicide and harming others when she doesn't get her way.

Cars passed me by as I make my way towards the hospital. I loosely hang onto the steering wheel, taking my time with every single turn, just to find myself in the parking lot next to the emergency room entrance. I get out and close the door behind me, heading towards the sliding doors that I've come to know all too well.

Guilt eats away at me because I know that if the situation were true and that Clara truly hurt herself that I would be a bad person for taking my time when she desperately needs somebody to be there for her. I just can't help but think that this is another one of her plans and plots to get what she wants.

The glass door slide open, and I stepped inside of the emergency room. It is way more quiet and slow than I expected, Clara most likely having been the only real emergency that came on through today so far. One of the nurses guide me towards Clara's room, and I find myself standing in front of the door.

Just from the outside, I can hear Clara's mother's cries and sobs, as well as the sound of her father, trying to soothe her mother's wails. I suck in a deep breath, looking around the intensive care unit one last time before pushing through the door, quietly closing it behind me as I turn and face the room.

Clara is asleep in bed. Her blonde hair is neatly tucked to one side of her face. She is asleep, a plethora of tubes, and IVs connected to her arms, a breathing tube attached to her mouth.

Clara's mother and father hug me as soon as they see me. They pull me into their embrace, unable to comprehend what is truly going on with their daughter. I feel for them, I do, but I am still so hesitant to fully believe in given to the idea that Clara is truly sick, that she truly did try to hurt herself because of pain, depression that she may have felt.

“Thank goodness you're here,” her mother breathes out, her hands clinging to me as if I am a lifeline for her to hold onto, one last sliver of hope that her daughter will pull through her internal wounds and wake up from this living nightmare.

“I am, yes,” I breathe out, unsure of what else there is for me to do or say to bring her comfort in this moment. “Do do you think you can tell me what exactly happened to Clara? I am very confused because you didn't explain over the phone.”

I know that Clara was found with an empty bottle of pills beside her alongside a note, but that is all that was given to me. Her father did not elaborate over the phone nor did he explain what truly happened. I can't help but feel bad for them, knowing that I know of her schemes and plots to make people feel bad for her, to gain their sympathy in order to forgive and set aside all of the misgivings, and since that she has committed in her life.

I watch as her dad takes a deep breath, his hands trembling as the three of us look upon Clara's unconscious body. He turns to look at me, his eyes read from tears, and sets his hands on his hips.

“Clara has been acting so different lately,” he begins, his voice trembling as he speaks, “we weren't sure what was going on with her or if she needed our help with anything. We knew that she had gotten into some trouble a little while back and that you were able to help her out so we assume that her woes were related to that incident.”

I slowly not in listen to her father, as he explains their point of view and perspective on the situation. My heart breaks for them, truly. I feel bad knowing that they must feel so helpless in their plight of wondering if their daughter is going to wake up or not.

“We thought that giving her space would be the right thing to do,” her mother cries out, holding onto her husband who stands behind her. Her mascara runs down her face, giving off the appearance of a grieving mother, despite her daughter still being alive beside her.

“She kept pushing us away and refused to let us in to what she was feeling,” her father size and poles his wife into a side hug, his hand planted on her hip, giving it a gentle squeeze. “she did not show any signs of wanting to kill herself, though, so we are just a surprised as you must be when you found out the news.”

I do not immediately reply. I turned my head to look at Clara, my eyes flickering to the machines that are connected to her body, keeping her alive in the moment. My mind wanders to the possibility of the machines being fake, that they are just props in the charade that Clara is putting on right now.

“I can't believe she was able to find her old medication, you know, the one that always made her sick,” her mother begins to solve all over again, her body doubling over. “I guess she wanted it to be as painful as possible, instead of going out in a peaceful manner.”

Why would Clara do such a thing? Why would she want it to be painful? From the moment I met Clara, I knew that she had no tolerance for discomfort nor could she handle even the slightest amount of pain.

I had always thought that she was so strong for pushing through her constant illnesses during her childhood as well as the constant testing that she had had to go through to see what exactly was wrong with her. Now, all I can see is a woman who is so desperate for the same attention that she wants as a child.

Clara is no longer a child, though, and this seems very real.

I cautiously approach the bed, taking my place at her side. If this was a happen a couple of months ago, I would have been here the moment I found out that she was not okay. I would have held her hand through the pain and quietly whispered to her, asking her to wake up for all of us.

Maybe she did want to commit suicide. I should have never have ignored her. This is all my fault.