Just Roll With It: a Just Us novel (37 page)

My auto-piloted body must relinquish some form of control because I feel the intense urge to scream. So I do. I scream with every ounce of force I have left. It's my final feat. Exerting one last battle cry. I was Leonidas and this is my Thermopylae. Even Bear plays perfectly into my twisted vision. Xerxes personified, waiting four days before attacking. It's weird the shit you actually think about right before you die.

The last thing I see before the room fades from my vision is Roman. He's running out of the bedroom in his boxer briefs and he looks scared. His beautiful face is paste white, and I focus on it. He shouts something while he runs to me, but I only see lips moving with no sound.

I wish I could tell him how it's all going to be okay. I wish I could tell him to just roll with it the way he always tells me to. I'd tell him if I could, but I can't. My mouth doesn't work right now, and I don't really believe it will be.

Enzo was wrong,
I think to myself, before everything in front of me goes black. Roman was my hero. Our love story may end in tragedy, but all the great ones do. One final jerk severs my grip. My palm skates to the edge, hanging over until only the tips of my aching fingers touch, leaving skidded marks in the bloody wake. I have to let go. 

There was so much blood. My only thought was I have to get the dog off of her. Now all I think about is how I wish I could have killed him with my bare hands. I pushed her away because I was afraid I could lose her. How fucking ironic? I'm going to lose her anyway. Literally this time. I caught her right before she would've hit the ground, but the dog still had a hold of her arm. I started punching the bastard in the head over and over and over again, but he was relentless. I couldn't get him to let go of her. I started to panic so I let go, took a step back and yelled at him as loud as I could to, "Go to bed!" It's what I say to my dog when she's being bad. I don't know what came over me, to shout a command instead of just looking for a goddamn gun, but it worked. It actually fucking worked. The dog simply let go. He let go and walked away. I pushed him into a bedroom, or bathroom, because I didn't fucking look to see which, and I shut him in there so I could go take care of Bug. She wasn't moving. Her tank top was torn to shreds and soaked. It was white, which alone amplified the way the bright blood looked against it. I was going to be sick. I didn't have time to get sick, so I was just going to have to puke later. I picked her up and laid her in the backseat of my car. I don't know how I was even able to dial with my hands shaking so hard, but I called her mom and Bee's brother, Evan, were meeting me at the hospital. I ran so many red lights I had stopped counting. They were already here when I got here and her brother took her from me. Being forced to let go of her really pissed me off. I knew I was being irrational, but my whole body was on overdrive and every emotion was inflated to ridiculous proportions. The nurses took her from him anyway and laid her on a table. She was so pale; her limp body was so … lifeless. That's when I lost it. I had to run to the closest garbage in sight and blew most of the chunks from my sour stomach. It's ripping my fucking guts out, Rigbee helpless and me not able to help her. It's too horrific to watch. They put some shit under her nose to try and wake her up. I could see in their expression it wasn't a good thing when she wouldn't. Her bed was pushed into a room, and when her mom and I tried to follow, we were forced back out. They told us we needed to leave so they could concentrate on doing everything they can to help her. I'm sitting here now in this shitty ass waiting room, completely fucking helpless, and I'm going fucking insane. I don't know why we haven't heard anything yet. The last thing I remember hearing was something about her "losing a lot of blood." At least, I think; I was pretty irate at the time. Then the door slammed in my face, and I couldn't see shit through the tiny ass tinted window. So here we sit. Her mom crying uncontrollably. Her brother trying to comfort her but at the same time freaking out inside. He won't stop tapping his foot on the ground.I was compulsively watching his knee bounce up and down and up and down before I saw this pen and paper lying on the end table. I have to do something with my hands or I'm going to start breaking shit. I just heard some doors opening. Shit, it's her Doc—

Yesterday, I was attacked by a Rottweiler dog. I was house sitting for four days already. I woke up at around six-thirty that morning to feed him. His name was Bear.

I wake up with a painful jolt. The nightmare was so real. The dog was there. It felt so real. So real. I'm still shaking, and my heart is pounding but ranks second to not knowing where exactly I am. The sun coming through the window is too bright. I blink a few times to help my sensitive eyes adjust.

Oh, my god, I feel like I've been hit by a train. I take a look around and given the tubes and monitors I'm hooked up to combined with the backless gown I'm wearing, I'm going to go ahead and guess I'm still at the hospital.

I try to lift my arm, but can't. I try to call for someone, but can't. I didn't realize until right now how bad my throat hurts. I swallow what little spit I can form, it goes down much like I'd imagine steel wool would.

Oh, shit, the dog! What ever happened with the dog? Oh, my god they are going to kill me. I suck at life so hard right now. I can't even take care of a dog without it inevitably wanting to kill me.

I struggle, but I force myself into a seated position. My movements catch the attention of all the people crowding outside the door of my room.

"She's awake," I hear Roman say first, before I watch as he maneuvers his way in-between and in front of the two nurses walking toward me.

I was told I had to stay in the hospital until the infection in my blood was gone. I'm hooked up to all kinds of antibiotics and pain meds. I've been here for five days now, and I'm finally allowed to get up and move around. And eat solid foods. I will never take food for granted ever.

I can't imagine I'll ever willingly eat pudding or gelatin again. Green Jell-O is my kryptonite. Not kidding. I'll be shitting green for weeks.

Grandpa Joe is here. Not here visiting me, but here on the same floor as me. He's been here for a few days, and I didn't know. He has been getting bad stomach bugs, and they haven't figured out why yet. I didn't want to see him yet, though, because I don't want him to worry when he sees how messed up I looked, all wrapped up in bandages and being hooked up to the IV.

Roman has been here every day and night since the attack. We haven't talked about us or anything, so I don't even know what to think. Instead, we play Scrabble and watch
Big Brother After Dark
. Today, he had to take care of some things and then actually left for the first time.

A few minutes after Roman leaves, I get antsy, so I grab a hold of my metal pole with wheels the IV hangs from and shuffle down the hall to visit Grandpa Joe.

"What's up, Buttercup?"

"Hey, Grandpa. How are you feeling?"

Grandpa Joe is lying in his bed, looking pale and fragile. Numerous wires are strewn about attached here and there, and like me he's shackled to an IV, confining him to the vicinity of his bed for now. I frown at the sight, my bottom lip inadvertently trembling, but then he smiles at me and says, "Oh, don't you worry about me, how are
you
feeling?"

"Not gonna lie, I've been better," I tell him as I roll my eyes.

"Looks like we both have, am I right, Rig?"

"I know, how weird for us to both be in here at the same time. I didn't even know you were sick." I give him a pointed look to show I'm not so happy he didn't tell me.

"I didn't find any reason to worry you."

"I know, but Grandpa—"

He immediately interrupts me, "But nothing, you're young and need to live your life without worrying about an old man."

"Living my life got me put here in the hospital right next to you!" I joke and he chuckles.

"Where's that guy of yours?"

"I don't know, actually. He said he had to go take care of something."

"He's a good guy. He stopped in here to visit with me a couple times, you know. When he gets back try not to give him too much of a hard time, he really does love you."

"So what? You think I should let everything he did slide and pretend like nothing happened?"

"Oh, no, make him kiss your boots … er … or hospital socks, I guess," he says playfully. “But, Rigbee, men are dipshits. The sooner you know, the better. But your guy, while his head was in his ass, his heart was in the right spot at least."

I try hold in the smile and look doubtful, but I can't fight it as my pouted lips stretch into a grin.

Grandpa nods his head at me and doesn't say another thing. No more words are necessary to convey his message. I nod back in understanding. He takes my nod as a sign our conversation has reached an end and rests his head back against his pillow and closes his eyes. I sit there for a moment more, not ready to go back to my isolated room yet, but without opening his eyes, Grandpa uses his hand to shoo me away.