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Guitars and Suicides: Chapter Nine

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The first night of camping out, we camped out at the hospital. None of the parents knew exactly where we were. They thought we were safe in the confines in our tents under the over heading of the bridge, out of the rain. Ingrid met up with us soon after we reached the hospital. We called her and informed her, the story.
The waiting room was quiet. You could hear the typing of the receptionist behind the desk, the coughing and sniffling of a patient sitting on the seat at the end of the room. White walls disrupt the setting as the floor was a bright blue tile and the ceiling was orange. I guess it suits the room. Diplomas and pictures of doctors and nurses filled the hallway leading to Mark’s emergency room. No one was allowed in, they were performing surgery. The knife had incinerated some of his nerves on his left arm. They were trying so hard to patch up the burning, split opened flesh. Anesthetic only worked for half the surgery. Around eight thirty, you could hear screaming and crying coming from his room. Even though he barely has any nerves on his arm, the ones still there induced more signals to the brain.
Stitches meant the procedure to an almost wrap. No more screaming was heard. The doctor entered the waiting room, where we patiently sat and listened.
“Your friend is okay,” he said, “However, he suffered serious damage on his left arm. He won’t be using that for a long, long time.”
“Will he be able to use it if he recovers properly?” I got up and asked.
“Well, it’s tough to know now; the body is not producing any new nerves. We might have to perform another surgery in three years to bring them back,” he explained.
“Three years?” Gerard was shocked. I would never anticipate his recovery to be so long. Then he asked, “Mark’s going to be in the hospital for three years?”
The doctor laughed, echoing the waiting room, it somewhat livened up the place, in a dull sense. “No, he will be able to leave in two days, this other surgery will be required to bring back his nerves, if he doesn’t start producing new ones,” he explained.
He left soon after; he told us that Mark will not be taking any visitors for today. It was nearly twelve, only the three of us were in the waiting room now. The receptionist had gone one, and several lights were turned off to conserve energy. The hallway leading to Mark’s room was dark, shadows stretched from corners and from the abyss. My heart started to beat in sync with the giant clock; ticking second by second. There was a picture of a road splitting off into a fork with dark clouds overhead. The opposite wall had a picture of a dying tree; bare, cold, dark.
The janitor came in and told us we could stay the night, since our friend was recovering. He handed us these thin blue sheets so we would not get cold. It was hard to sleep. The nightshift consisted of three doctors and five nurses, dispersed in ten different stories. I kept waking up every hour, I wanted to see Mark. All I could think about was him dying in his sleep. Questions ran through my head as nightmares cloud reality.
“What if the stitches weren’t tightened enough? What if he fell off his bed and opened his wound?” I asked myself. Gerard was awake at three. He could not sleep either. We talked for a bit, I am not too sure what we talked about exactly. He fell asleep a couple minutes after our conversation, so did I, but I woke up around four. There were windows surrounding the waiting room, and as I glanced out the window, the night seemed brighter. The sun began creeping up the night’s end. Stars began to fade in the light, the sky was nevertheless dark and shadows still crept through the window. Trees began to shake and rain began to fall again. Thunder crackled softly from a distance, light became visible in the clouds. The tapping of the rain hitting the glass windows kept a steady beat, which put me back to sleep.
An earthquake? I was shaking insanely and I almost fell of the bench. My eyes peaked to see what was happening. No one else was shaking, or panicking, or ducking for cover; someone was shaking me from the shoulder. I now felt the hand which promoted the action. Mark was standing right in front of me as he shook me violently.
“Hey! Hey! Hey! Wake uuuuuuuup!” he yelled.
I got up and stretched out my arms. He stopped shaking me now; he was waiting for me to say something. “Morning,” I said. I glanced over to his arm. The white, two inch thick cast covered his forearm and some of his upper arm. It was shaped at a ninety degree angle, so his arm could rest in the cast and recover quickly. The cast was wrapped in this blue, synthetic cotton, cloth which was connected to this strap that wrapped around his body.
“Wow, can I be the first to sign it?” I asked.
“Yeah, I knew you were going to say that,” he said. He raised the cast like it was no problem. “I see you’re good to go.”
He meant that I my wounds on my arms and legs were patched up. They were not as severe as Mark’s but these scratches would eventually leave these sets of scars which everyone eyed on.
The doctor entered the waiting room, abruptly closing our conversation. He was holding his clipboard, and had his glasses on. “Okay, Mark’s good to go. He recovered faster than we expected so I will release him early,” he announced. Mark’s parents were at the receptionist’s desk asking for the bill for Mark’s emergency. They seemed like such a fine couple, Mark’s parents. I do not know their first names, since I always call them by their last name. Mr. Bennings was a very stout man; all he wore were business suits wherever he went. He had brown hair before, now he starting to show his age. Mrs. Bennings was a young, decent, woman. She was taller than her husband, about half a foot. She had on a humungous overcoat, so what she wore under was concealed by the giant brown cotton jacket. They were hard working people, and from the looks of what the bill turned out, they will be in for a rollercoaster.
There was nothing his friends can do now; his parents will take care of him now. Antonio Fisting was charged of assault on a minor and carrying a weapon as a minor and some more embezzlement charges for having cocaine in his house. He was later trialed and sent to prison for five years. Unfortunately, he was released five years later. His father was in some sort of an accord with the state government and Mrs. Sanders. Carlson Train High will be accepting an expelled student and a prison man his senior year.
Mark has never shown his scar to anyone but me. He always kept it hidden either having bandage tape over it or he wore a long sleeve shirt. It was a shameful Mark of his. I asked him if he wanted anything from me, any sort of help or assistance. All he said was “Let the blind lead the blind.”
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