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Stable Ground 9

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Four impossible minutes later (due to the influence of Jonathan’s money) we stood at the foot of the emergency room which was a smaller white building compared to the main hospital it was attached to. Once more, Jonathan supported my weight as we entered the sliding glass doors to the emergency room. The first thing I saw was red. Not red, I learned a moment later, but magenta. A lot of magenta. Every chair in the waiting area- as well as the rug and the flowers in the paintings on the walls- was magenta. The small television had no sound, but sat alone in a corner of the room. Before I was done analyzing the room, though, Jonathan pulled me over to the check in counter where a young nurse put down a thick book to smile up at us.

“Good Afternoon,” She greeted. “What can we help you with?” The frail blonde girl started clicking the mouse on a very high-tech computer.

“Well,” I said, looking down at my calf where the blood had stopped gushing, but was still flowing freely. It burned, now more than it had intentionally, and I bit my lip and closed my eyes. Apparently, the nurse had looked down to my leg while I was trying to ward off the pain.

“Oh, my,” she gasped, turning a light shade of green. “Well, I’ll just…yes…um, one moment,” She ran from her small cubicle and into a door behind her desk. Jonathan chuckled lightly.

“Why work in a hospital when you get queasy at the sight of blood?” He asked rhetorically. I shrugged as a tall bald man in a doctor’s coat came out of the door, smiling at me.

“Hello,” he said as he came around the desk to me and looked down at my leg. “Well no wonder Olivia is in the restroom,” he laughed. Another larger nurse came out of the same door with a black wheelchair, angling it around the cubicle and chairs. “Hop up in here, darling,” he instructed. Jonathan helped me into the wheelchair that was brought beside me. “Let’s get you back into a bed so we can stop some of this bleeding before you play twenty questions,” He pushed the wheelchair to a door that had been concealed by the cubicle and slid it through with ease. I felt slightly embarrassed as he pushed me past rooms and curtained areas, feeling so small compared to all the full-sized doctors that walked past. “Can you hop up here?” he asked, motioning to a bed in a room I hadn’t remembered entering. Only one magenta chair sat in the corner of the room. “Let’s take a look, see what we’re dealing with,” he suggested after I had literally jumped up onto the white sheeted bed. Jonathan fell back into the magenta chair as the doctor washed his hands, placed rubber gloves over his skin, and tenderly moved the bloody pant leg up to my knee. “Wow,” he sighed. “You sure know how to rip up a leg, huh?” he tried to joke. I smiled more out of politeness than entertainment. “Okay, Hun, what’s your name?” The doctor went over to a computer beside the bed and clicked open a file.

“Um, Sam,” I sighed hopelessly.

“Full-”

“Silvia Annette Mason,” I corrected, knowing the real name was no use.

“Age, address, insurance, reason to cut your leg open?” he attempted to joke again and this time I skipped the courtesy, going right to the answers.

“Seventeen, don’t have insurance,” I supplied, careful to leave out the address and leaving the story for a more appropriate time.

“Address?” he asked again. I stalled badly, faking a yawn.

“12099 Alexander Avenue, Maple, NY,” I lied. The doctor accepted this, typing it into his computer. The doctor looked out into the hallway as another doctor walked past and excused himself politely, closing the curtain around us, whether to maintain my privacy or his, I wasn’t sure.

“12099 Alexander Avenue?” Jonathan asked skeptically from his corner. It was only at that moment that I realized that I wasn’t cold. Not extremely warm, but not icy cold.

I looked down at my hands as I answered his question. “It was my address before…everything,”

“Oh,” he said shortly. “I wondered how you answered so automatically,” I looked back at him and smiled as the doctor came back into the room.

“I apologize for that,” he smiled politely. “Okay, Silvia-” he tried. NO ONE (extreme emphasis) called me Silvia. I would never even let the President call me that (as if I‘d ever even meet him).

“Sam.” I stated.

“Sam,” He looked at me questioningly. “What exactly happened?” I rolled my eyes and began my story slowly.





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