100 Love Letters I'll Never Send (...situations to get hurt too)

"I don't feel good,"
"What's wrong?" I turn and look at her. Her face is totally white. She has the most horrific expression on her face. Then she hunches over, plaing her arms on her stomach.

"I need a hospital," she mutters; barely, getting her words out.
This is all my fault. Britney poisoned her. That's gotta be it. But how do I prove it?

My phone rings. I look at the screen. It's my sponsor. He always calls at the worst time. It's 8:30 pm. I should be in bed by now. Tomorrow is day 2 at work. If I work hard enough I might be able to get back my old job.

10:30 pm we're at Memorial Hospital emergency room. She's lying in a fetal position using the floor, resting her head in my lap.

"Carmel Lita," the emergency room nurse looks ragged.
Carmelita giggles a bit at her name being mispronounced. Then she stands up quickly; almost as if she's not even sick. No that can't be possible. It's just my selfish mind playing tricks on me. I look at her again. She almost slips and falls. Once again she's clutching her stomach. The nurse and I help her to a side examining room.

"You can go home baby, I know you have work tomorrow," she mumbles.
"No baby, we're a team," I say then kiss her on the forehead.

1:30 am we finally get home.

I keep looking at the clock. Hoping to sleep. Yet there's something I'm sensing is not quite right. Carmelita is sound asleep. I remember looking at the clock at 4 am. Then somehow waking up again around 6:30 am.

The doctor gave her something "Percocet, hm," I read the label and the instructions for usage. Usually she's awake before me and is fixing me breakfast.

I barely make it to work on time.





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