Frank/OMC - Based on a true story. Rate it and review it for me, please?
Sometimes, things don’t go the way you want them to. Life takes a turn for the worst and you feel like you have nowhere to go. Every time you start to smile again, someone knocks you back down. That’s what my life has been for the past year and this is my story.
Only a couple of years previous, I moved into an apartment with my close childhood friend, Adam. After growing up in the UK, I was used to a rough community and wanted to leave. That’s where my Chicagoan Uncle became useful. He bought us a place in the city and we moved in straight away. I returned home occasionally to keep up with family and friends, but my parents travel a lot and mutual free time was extremely rare. Last October brought my Dad’s 50th birthday and that seemed like a pretty big deal! I called my Mom and we decided to surprise him with my return just in time for celebration.
I creep around the corner into the kitchen, where he’s sat reading the local newspaper. His present is held behind my back as I blow gently on his ear to catch his attention. “Hey Dad.” I whisper, and his immense joy replaces his trademark frown.
“Danny! Oh, Danny boy.” His favourite nickname for me. “You’re home!” I’m immediately enveloped in a bone-crushing hug and I make the compulsory croaking noises.
“Happy birthday Dad, you’re getting old!” We laugh and I produce his present – a bottle of whisky from duty-free. Don’t judge me, I only flew in that morning! A rough kiss on the cheek, that I wipe away playfully and he’s already cracked it open, taking a swig straight from the bottle. “Aren’t you supposed leave whisky for a few years or something?” I question and he just shrugs at me, winking. It’s just a small gesture, but makes me realise that I missed my family a lot.
“How long are you home for, kid?”
“We have an open return, but we were thinking of heading back at the start of next month.”
“We?” I smile and shout Adam through, who had been hovering at the door. I wasn’t going to travel alone.
A few weeks later and my life begins to spiral downhill. I’ve headed into town with Adam and Rose – a short, red haired friend – and they’re both stood in Game, swooning over a poster Ezio Auditore, protagonist of Assassin’s Creed 2, Revelations and Brotherhood. Well, I say swooning… Rose is trying to steal a couple of quid off Adam to buy the poster, wanting to fuel her obsession of the franchise. My boredom entices me outside and I lean against the railing, looking down at the fish by the fountain in Prince’s Quay. One cigarette later, and they’re still inside, and so I start to wander.
All it takes is some bad judgement on my part before I hear the squealing of brakes and my vision fades before my body hits the ground. I don’t feel the pain. I don’t feel anything. I know that there’s a road beneath me and that people are trying to roll me over. “Don’t touch him.” Someone’s panicking. There’s a slam of a car door and someone desperately pleading with whatever crowd has gathered, “You saw him, he walked out straight in front of me! You saw it right, you can vouch for me!”
My vision’s coming back to me and I can see the dirty orange bricks that make the road, pressed against my face. My head is beginning to pound and I try to pull myself to my feet. I keep being pushed back down with phrases like, “no, you might have hurt yourself,” or, “stay down in case it makes it worse” being thrown about, but I don’t want to.
I don’t know if it’s because of some sort of concussion, amnesia or just pure stupidity, but the only thing I can think of saying in response. “I was pushed.” A shaky finger extended, pointing to Rose and I see her face pale. After years of arguments, this is the last thing she needs, and to this day, I don’t know what possessed me to say it. To this day, it remains a sore point, appearing in arguments and serious conversations.
Later that day, I leave the hospital with no more than cuts and bruises.
Only a few weeks pass before I’m walking with Rose along the river-bank, explaining to her that she still means a lot to me, I can make this right and we can make whatever relationship we have left work. I hold her hand, she pulls away. I hold her wrist, she shakes me off. I turn to her and press my forehead against my own, hand placed firmly on her waist. The words I spoke will never leave me. They came from my heart and they poured from me as pure emotion.
“I could never do anything to hurt you mentally or physically, if my head was in the right place. Sometimes I have no control over my actions, I have no idea what I am doing and I apologise for that. Nothing I can say will make you love me again, I cannot do anything to ensure we will last. This will always be your choice, if you can forgive me and put up with me.” I held her closer and I will always savour the feeling of her body against my own. There was a hesitant moment before her arms wrapped around my shoulders, pulling me into a hug and I sighed in relief, tightening my hold and sliding my hands round to her back.
I don’t remember a lot after that. We walked along a little bit further, reaching the bridge. There’s a low metal support above the path and I collapsed, my head ricocheting off the blue metalwork.
A comminuted skull fracture.
I got kicked out of the hospital for bad behaviour. They didn’t say it like that. I had a cross through when I was supposedly going to be discharged and it was moved earlier following comments of unwanted actions. They couldn’t have discharged me for it if I wasn’t getting better though. On the other hand, we’re looking at Hull, so I can’t be too sure. I wasn’t rowdy or abusive though, I just said a couple of dirty comments to a nurse. I received a few warnings, so I eased up for a day. Only a day.
I got home visits too, but the nurses changed on a regular basis due to “unwanted comments” again.
Epidural hematoma. A traumatic brain injury which is like internal bleeding. It’s where blood builds up betweens the skull and the outside of the brain. If it happened to me, I would have been dead. But during a check-up, a lighter, convex covering appeared on the scan, leading the doctors to believe it could be happening to me. I sat in a doctors office and was told a percentage of a fucking percentage. It was the scariest moment of my life. There was a 63% chance that I would develop a problem that 15% of sufferers died from.
The walls felt like they were closing around me and my head was spinning. I managed out a “Thank you for letting me know, doctor” and I let myself out. He followed me, asking if there was anybody I needed to contact, how was I getting home, do I want to wait for someone? He was more than happy to allow me to sit in his office for another half hour to let the information sink in. I just wanted to get home.
Over the month, I began to lose my mind. My girlfriend, Sara, was growing tired of me and the lack of sex. I had the worry of a fatal injury weighing on my shoulders. I was forgetting simple things and Adam had to leave back to the US. I was not allowed to fly. My parents were on a cruise somewhere for three months and I had not managed to contact either of them. I said hurtful things due to my stress and slowly lost the only people to care for me.
Luckily, the light patch of bleeding quickly dissipated and the worry left everyone’s mind except my own. I escaped death, and I decided to change my perspective on life, make something of myself.
That was only the start though. Over the next 9 months, I lost more than I could have ever have expected.
This is completely my life. My ex-boyfriend, Sonny, is being renamed "Frank" though, so that it fits in this category. Any US/UK language differences in my writing are purely due to me spending as much time in Chicago as in Yorkshire. I have some sort of mixed language thing going on.
For those of you following it, I have updated my blog twice: http://harthansmith.blogspot.co.uk/
Love the rates, not so many reviews though?