38 | Butter

Brain, you are off schedule again.

I was awake, and it had only been one night. One night. Was that supposed to be healthy? That after all the emotional trauma and physical abuse, my body chose to be conscious the next day? Damn it, this was unfair.

According to the stories, movies and shows, someone wouldn't wake up after that for maybe a week at least? Then here I was, wide awake and alert. I didn't feel tired. But I knew my body needed sleep to recover. Now, go back to sleep, Ollie.

But not before I scanned my surroundings. I knew it was still a day after that incident because the digital clock said so. 8:45 am. Too early. I wasn't in the mood for this crap so brain, you better get sleepy.

As expected, I was in a hospital room. Alone. I mean, where else – the cemetery? Contrary though to what I knew, it wasn't all white. The bed and the sheets were gray. The hospital gown was greenish. The walls were lime. And thank God, the windows were shut.

The room was nearly bare. Nightstand, desk, couch and bed – that was it. A simple room. Honestly, I thought that the only hospital I'll ever be admitted in, in my whole life, would just be the mental hospital.

But surprise, surprise I was here.

I sat up, knowing it would take time for me to doze off. What did my brain want anyway? Coffee? I just sat there aimlessly, as if nothing had happened. My limbs only felt numb, like what it felt after a long workout. No pain.

Or was there anesthesia?

I rolled my shoulders, craned my neck and stretched my bandaged arms – I could still feel them. So maybe no anesthesia. My feet were fine, but faintly sore.

But my mouth – chocolate balls, my mouth. It felt drier than a desert. I wasn't quite hungry, even though I had so little for dinner last night. Fortunately, I found a glass of water ready for me by the nightstand. By the time I finished it, I was still parched.

"Wa . . . ter," I tried testing my speech. It was okay; I didn't forget how to talk or anything.

I rubbed my palms on my lap. This hospital gown felt oddly loose, also comfy. Then, I looked up in surprise at the door opening.

The woman who entered looked just as surprised to see me. Doctor – my doctor – judging by the white garments. She stepped inside the room, quietly closing the door behind her.

"Good morning, Oliver," she greeted rather warily, "I'm Doctor Nash. How are you feeling?"

"Fine, I guess," I moved my lower body a little, "But I still feel like staying in this bed. My brain can't sleep. Do you have any pills, or – eh – anything you can inject me?"

Her eyebrows rose, and she replied, "I think there might be some in the cabinet." She moved to the desk where, there were cupboards underneath. Crouching, she scoured the inside for the sleeping pills.

"Um . . ." I scratched my head, "Waking up right after – is that normal? Shouldn't I be in coma or something?"

Doctor Nash started to explain, "Usually a patient would be asleep for more than a day, after what happened to you. But your case isn't unheard of. You can sleep afterwards and the body will continue its recuperating process."

She took a plastic box and stood up, adjusting her glasses. Then, the doctor went over to the side of my bed. "Think of it as your own way of dealing with this stress. Everyone has different strategies based on their mentalities."

She opened the box full of colored pills and handed me one. I just held it on the palm of my hand. "I was still awake in the ambulance. That's still normal, then?" I asked her.

"Is that so?" Doctor Nash said, "Well, maybe your brain hasn't believed yet that that happened. It was still looking for a sign that it wasn't reality."

"But I have to accept the truth now, don't I? My sister is dead," I said bluntly.

She nodded somberly, "Yes, I'm afraid so."

"You don't seem that sympathetic. It's the usual for you, isn't it?"

She had her lips pursed for a while, thinking, before replying. "Working in a hospital, you see death almost every day. And when families would cry and scream out that it isn't supposed to be happening, that hurts the most."

"Ah, I'm well out of voice right now, so I guess I'll scream and cry for Harmony later." I shrugged, "So I just take this pill and then I pass out already?"

I watched as she refilled the glass with water for me. "You'll get sleepy after a few and before you know it, you're out," she told me.

I took the pill between two fingers and turned it over and over, observing it. The glass was on my other hand. "Oh, goodie. That's relieving. But how will they feed me? Let me drink? And I'll be stinky."

"Don't worry about that. We have our own ways. You need all the rest you can get."

I pondered over it. I imagined my mother spoon-feeding a sleeping Oliver. Huh, that was weird.

Then, I looked up at my doctor, "Do you mind doing me a favor?"

"Anything, Ollie."

"Can you not tell my mom that I woke up?" I said, "Or not tell anyone else? Because if they found out, they'll probably get me to wake up again. I don't know – hold a chocolate bar under my nose, maybe?"

"Don't worry; this secret's safe with me," she promised.

"Alright then, I guess I'll see you in what? Two, three weeks?" I took the pill in. Doctor Nash said goodbye and slipped out of the room as I lied back on my bed.

The pillows were comfy. So comfy. Who knew hospitals could be so calming, soothing? Folding my hands on top of my tummy, I let my eyes close and I welcomed the slumber.

Hello there, mind palace.

♫ ♫ ♫

Two weeks! What a new record. I should be given an award for this one.

Well, not exactly two weeks, but more like twelve days. The digital clock said so. It was eleven in the morning, and a bit of sunlight poured out of the windows. I still felt the same as when I first woke up, only that I was only a little thirsty. Wow, twelve days felt so quick.

School, God damn it, I still had school. I missed two weeks of school. How will I ever make up for that? But worry later, the room was empty and I didn't know what to do. Didn't they have those fancy remote controls in the beds to call for a nurse?

I tried testing my limbs. Sure enough, they still worked. Maybe I could walk out the room. Was I supposed to walk out of the room? Screw it. I'm going to stay here.

I looked at the nightstand, where there was a full cup of water. I wondered how they shoveled food into my mouth and made me drink. My hand reached for the glass, but I stopped, my ear catching something from outside the room.

" . . course we need to see her! She's like a daughter of us. Brennan and Jackson care a lot about Oliver!" That was Maira. And if Maira was here, then so was Walter.

"You're not welcome here –" I heard my father say, but he was immediately cut off by Mom.

"Grant!" Mom said, "It's been more than a week. At least let them see her."

Grumbling from Dad. What a child. "Fine with me, then. But afterwards we need to talk. About . . . matters. To settle this once and for all." I bet all the chocolate I'll ever eat that Mom forced him to say that.

My fists clenched on the sheets as I blocked out the rest of their conversation. Tears gathered at the corners of my eyes and I gritted my teeth in annoyance. Damn this all. If it took that incident for them to make peace – for my father to stop the rivalry – then maybe I could've sacrificed myself a long time ago.

Did they really wait for Mony's death to rest the battle?

I swallowed heavy breaths, thinking about my baby sister. Gone. It should've been me, and not her. She was eight years old, damn it. She had her whole life ahead of her. And she didn't even get to live her years happily. She died feeling pressured by the horrors of Hollywood, she died neglected by her father and she died without even experiencing the full joys of life.

I would've died contentedly. I had sung that night – I was happy that my voice was finally heard. I had friends. I had reconciled with my sister. I had felt love. I had had a Tumblr blog. I would've died happy.

Mony was innocent. Little Mony didn't do anything. My sister didn't deserve it.

Lips trembling, I reached my hand for the glass of water again. I wanted to sleep again and wake up after a month.

I wasn't looking. The glass slid to the edge and shattered onto the floor. I blinked at the spilt water and broken pieces at the floor.

Oops, somebody did that.

"She's awake!" A shriek came from outside the door. My eyes widened. Mom heard it. I heard her thumping footsteps, about to come inside. No, no, go back. Play dead, Ollie.

But the door hadn't flown open yet. I held my breath.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, I have to go inside first, to check her vitals. She's traumatized at the moment so we need to take things slowly." Doctor Nash. Thank God for that savior. The rest I heard were murmurings.

And when the door opened, it was my doctor who went inside. She cracked a smile upon seeing me.

"I figured, considering your case, that you won't want to speak to anyone for the meantime," she said to me. I nodded my head.

"Yeah, thanks for that, by the way," I told her.

"No problem," Doctor Nash looked down at her clipboard, tapping her pen on it, "I'll have to run more tests later on. But right now, best thing to do is to eat and refresh yourself. Do you want the nurse to deliver the food or your mother . . . ?"

"Let my mother do it, she's probably fainting in there if not eavesdropping," I waved my hand.

"What about others? There's a long line of visitors for you, Oliver. They come here day and night to talk to your unconscious body," Doctor Nash mentioned.

"Let them in later. I'll only allow, um," I counted with my fingers, "Five visitors at most. Don't expect me to converse with them normally, though."

"Of course. Your body did a good job recovering, you know. Most of the wounds are healed, but there are some scars."

"Then can I leave soon or will I stay for the therapy?" I asked in a bored tone.

"Oh, therapy is your family's decision. You do have a unique way with your . . . situation," she told me.

"Thanks. I don't know how I'm doing it."

Doctor Nash checked my temperature first and gave me water in a plastic cup before leaving. Frankly, I wasn't ready to face my mom. Or anyone. But they did their waiting so I shouldn't disappoint them.

When she was gone and she let my mother in, it was when chaos broke out.

"Oliver, my baby!" She ran towards me, a tray in her hands. She set it down and went to my side, putting her hands on either side of my face. Tears filled her eyes.

I kept my poker face on. Mom, no need to be that emotional. She let go of me and started fussing around.

"Oh my God, are you hungry? I brought your favorite food. You want me to feed you? Are you thirsty, sweetie?"

She never called me 'sweetie' before.

I gazed down at the tray. Chocolate milk, bacon strips, eggs, and a pile of pancakes with butter and maple syrup. Wow, that was a lot of butter. Like a huge chunk. It contributed to my non-appetite.

"I'm not hungry," I muttered.

"What?" Mom looked extremely concerned, "But you haven't eaten a lot! You have to get something to your empty stomach!"

I refused to say anything. I expected this, met with that incident. I knew I wouldn't be hungry. See, after a traumatic experience, I didn't binge-eat or stress-eat. I simply didn't eat anything because my appetite shut down. I didn't know why, but it worked that way. A mystery, indeed.

The first time it happened was when Mom and Dad divorced. I only ate mashed potatoes and cheese for a week. My rule was that something wasn't scarring enough when I was still hungry after the experience.

Mom didn't know this. So she'll probably force food down my throat.

Mom took a deep breath and sat down to a chair next to me. She took my hand in hers, "I already lost my baby Harmony. And I spent nights in your room, wondering if I'll lose you too. And I want to say that I'm glad you're alive, Ollie. I would never live with myself if you were gone."

I stared straight ahead. What could I respond to that? My mother was crying because of me – I've never seen her done so. This was unbelievable.

"Please eat, sweetie. You need to," she begged.

Moving my hand slowly, I took the chocolate milk and tipped it to my mouth. The taste was bland to my tongue. I merely took a little sip and set it back down.

"You know," she ran her finger on my knuckles, "Your father kept his promise. He's giving money to the shop. And you get to go to Bridgeshade and Reynold Records will support Divide and Conquer. Money, too, so you'll have extra allowance."

Did those still matter?

Mom rattled off how things were these past days. I had visitors every day, apparently, and sometimes they'd spend the night on the couch. And they'd try all sorts of antics to try wake me up.

She should be the one lying here on the hospital bed, healing, I thought. Mom should be the one soothed and taken care of. She's damaged – two of her beloved daughters caught up in the consequence brought by history. I mean, it wasn't only physical health that mattered.

My guess was that she blamed herself for not doing anything about Owen. She was the one who he talked to in the shop, after all.

By the time she was finished, Mom kissed my forehead, "I have to let the others talk to you. They've been waiting for you to wake up."

I nodded once.

"You promise you'll eat?"

I nodded once. Lie. That was still a lot of butter on the pancakes.

Quite hesitantly, Mom stood up and went out of the room. I thought about who was next to come in. Dad? We'll only have awkward silence. What would he do if he was here? Apologize? The second option was Maira and Walter visiting me.

But when the door opened, it was Montana who came in. I cringed when I saw her – she looked like a mess. Like she hadn't slept and put on makeup for a while. Like she cried twenty-four seven.

"Ollie," she went up to me and hugged me. She smelled faintly of my perfume.

"Monty," I said softly. She pulled away and smiled sadly at me. She sat on the spot where Mom was before.

"What's there to talk about, anyway?" I arched an eyebrow.

She chuckled shakily, "I don't know. I'm happy you're okay. We were all so worried, you had no idea. It was agonizing just standing there outside and waiting – " She stopped herself, "Sorry, I shouldn't be talking about this. You don't want to remember – "

I interrupted her, "No, tell me. How'd you find me? Did my text work?"

She fidgeted with her fingers before reluctantly telling me. "Violet was calling over Divide and Conquer after your performance. We couldn't find you anywhere. Then, I saw Jackson. He told me he saw you last, talking to Mitchell. That's when we tried to piece things together."

"Then we went to Jess in case she knew something," Montana continued, "She got an alert that your phone dialed a police. And she got a text that you needed help and to track your phone. Brennan came. He suggested it was a joke. But Jess said it wasn't one – she knew you would be last to text her if it was a joke. So we tried to track down your phone."

"The location was moving. You were in a car. We followed you and we told everyone – Dad, Mom and even Walter. It took time for us to contact police and backup – Jess pulled some strings. We were traveling when Dad got a text message. That you and Harmony were held hostage. I tried to call Glenda but I couldn't contact her."

Montana was already tearing up, "I remember just standing out there and crying. Brennan was holding me. And at the same time, he was holding back Jackson from running into the warehouse. Suddenly there was a loud scream . . . and then the gunshot. We didn't know who was shot, because it was dead quiet after that. I thought that whether either of you is shot, I'd still be ruined."

"I should've been the one there," she cried, "Mony didn't deserve it and the same with you. They shot Owen – in the arm, not enough damage – and took Glenda and Mitchell to prison. We rushed you to the hospital."

Keeping my expression impassive, I brought my hand up to squeeze her shoulder. Montana pulled me into a tight hug, crying on my shoulder. My lips couldn't form words. What could I say anyway?

I decided that besides Mom, Monty should be in bed, too, with the invisible scars she had. She blamed herself – for what happened to Mony and for what Mitch did. She witnessed her sisters get tortured while she stood by, glued to the spot – hopeless. But no, she wasn't in a hospital bed like me.

"I was awake, in the ambulance, you know," I thought that she deserved to know.

Montana sniffed, "You were?"

"Yeah . . . the dark chocolate got me going. I can't sleep right away."

She pulled away and wiped her tears. "I'm sorry, I'm such a disaster," said she, "You shouldn't be too bombarded right now."

"I rested for two weeks; I think that's more than enough time," I shrugged nonchalantly.

We bade goodbye to each other with another long, comforting hug. I told her that she should get some sleep – not to worry anymore. She promised me she would. After she left, Brennan came in right away.

Ah, Brennan. He might be everybody's crutch right now. Despite his immaturity, he was the strongest. I imagined my mom pouring out her sorrows to him, and he comforting her. I imagined Montana leaning into him as he wrapped an arm around her.

Though I could tell he was destroyed, too.

He didn't look much of a mess compared to Mom and my sister. The second he entered the room, he ran towards me and hugged me, and then gave a kiss on the side of my head.

"I was so worried," he breathed out.

"So how are you feeling?" I asked him.

He raised his eyebrows in surprise, and then confusion took over. "What do you mean?" he asked, "I should be the one asking you that."

I said it to him straightforwardly, "As you can see, I'm completely fine here. Refreshed and rested. So what's to worry about now? I'm asking you because I guessed nobody has asked yet."

His face softened and a smile slowly spread on his lips. "I'm fine. Shaken up, but the coffee's helping."

"And you've been giving a lot of advice and soothing words lately?"

He looked down and then looked back up to my eyes. I could see the vulnerability in them, like he was shed of his prideful mask. Poor, poor boy. "Believe it or not, I've been talking to everyone. My mother, Raquel, Montana, even Lawrence and Jess . . . and Jackson."

"Then I want to tell you that that's an amazing act to everybody's support," I sent him an encouraging smile, "You deserve a gold star for that. Now, it's your turn to spill out to me."

"What! I can't do that!" he exclaimed.

"Yes, you can. I don't mind. Just anything to get off the burden on your shoulders," I took both of his hands and squeezed. Brennan was always there for me, but right now, he needed his little sister.

"Okay . . ." he murmured, "Okay then. It's just hard for me. Usually, the things I say to people are things I try to apply to myself. But sometimes it doesn't work. At night, I can't sleep and I have nightmares about the screams and the guns. Then, I wonder to myself why, why that had to happen."

He blinked at me once. Twice. Thrice. "Was that okay?"

"Perfect," I said. "Now speaking of that prick – Jackson . . ."

"He's always here, Ollie," Brennan assured, "When Monty and I come, he's there, following. He'd also sleep here in your room and come here right after school and he'd do his homework here. Sometimes he'd talk to you. Sometimes, he won't leave your side. He's always there."

". . . Except the time when I'm awake. He's not planning to see me, is he?"

"Listen, he just thinks he's not the person you'd want to see when you wake up. He says you should recover first before the both of you talk," said he.

I snorted, "I should slap his head for being that stupid."

Brennan laughed lightly, "He'll come around. I don't know with you, but my ship is slowly emerging to the surface."

"I miss him," I played with the sheets for a bit, "My jackass."

Brennan nudged me, "Just wait. He might not be talking to you, but he'll be outside."

"How considerate."

Bam. Another conclusion. Brennan should also be treated in a hospital. Although he was everybody's crutch, it didn't mean that he wasn't hurt, too. I bet he felt the worst because Mitch was involved in it. He should also be in bed, until the despair escapes.

After Brennan went out, I half-hoped that Jackson would walk into that door. But much to my relief and disappointment, Lawrence and Jessica were next. I found it sweet that they came in together, not separately.

They talked to me about casual matters, reeling away from the incident topic. I assumed that thought I didn't want to talk about it. I was more than happy to see Lawrence, though. He didn't deserve to see this kind of madness. Same goes for Jessica – I had to thank her for answering my call.

The talk with Jess and Law finished, I expected more visitors, like maybe Maira and Walter or even my schoolmates. But Doctor Nash entered once again, saying that those were five visitors already and I needed to rest.

I took a glimpse at my cold breakfast – brunch – on the nightstand. Still untouched. Still too buttery. I was in no mood to eat, knowing I'd just vomit it all out. Though I felt bad for wasting something so delicious.

I lied back on the bed, my head cushioned by the fluffiest pillows. It was funny how things were reversed – Mom, Brennan, Monty and the others grieving about the incident should be in bed. Harmony should be in a hospital bed, not me. Certainly not me.

Because I didn't need to be here, in a hospital room. My family and friends were worrying over nothing. I wasn't hurting – it was empty. There was no sadness or depression. Only nothing. Void of emotion, incapable of more empathy.

What was that, brain? You don't want to sleep again. So we should just lie awake here thinking about meaningless things?

If you say so.

♫ ♫ ♫