Everything was beeping and whirring.
That’s all there was in this world.
Blaine could feel his toes. His fingers. His jaw. His head. His arms. He could feel lots of things.
It was bringing himself to move them that was the hard part.
He knew there was a reason. A reason why he should move. Why he should make it known that he could hear things. And probably see them too.
He just couldn’t remember what it was.
Part of him wanted to think it was because of his mom.
Who’s familiar hand was gripping his so tight it almost hurt.
But no, that wasn’t really it.
It was a reason, yes. But it wasn’t the reason.
Maybe it was because of his dad.
His dad who was probably going to give him hell for wasting his time and money on...what was going on?
Blaine could hear the nurses. Or what he assumed were nurses. Or maybe doctors.
“I heard he was beat up.”
“Yeah--him and that other boy”
“Cornered in a parking lot no less. Poor kids”
“Wonder if he’ll ever wake up”
“I feel so sorry for his mom. Poor dear, always in here worrying over him.”
“At least he’s out for this. God would you look at that leg.”
Blaine heard bits and pieces of their conversations, so he knew that he must be in a hospital, and apparently injured.
Blaine’s first reaction to the news had been, “Not again.” First with the Sadie Hawkins dance. And now this. And in addition to that it sounded like he hadn’t been alone. At least at the dance he’d been able to give the other boy a head start.
Blaine knew he should open his eyes.
Grunt.
Sniffle.
React in some way at some point to any interaction at all.
He just needed to remember why first.
There was a reason, he was sure of it.
And not some primal thing either.
Not ‘I’m thirsty’. No, what ever was pumped into his arm kept him hydrated well enough.
Not ‘I need to pee.’ No, for what ever reason, he never felt the urge to evacuate his bladder.
Not ‘I’m hungry.’ No, the things being pumped into his arm kept him full as well.
And it wasn’t just a need to keep living his life.
No, he’d lost that a long time ago. He’d stopped asking what the point even was any more years ago. Because the simple answer: There just wasn’t one. Not that he was suicidal, no. He would not be the one to take his life. He would not let anyone get him to that point. Because if he did, then they won.
But it was something. There was a reason he needed to get up. To move. To run to this reason. To scream for it until it came to him.
Sometimes he could hear a voice.
It was a lovely voice.
It was high and sweet and lulled in all the right places.
It reminded Blaine oddly of what being ‘home’ felt like.
The voice did different things sometimes.
Blaine could never make out distinct words or phrases.
But he knew the difference between it talking and singing.
Sometimes the voice sang, lovely melodies that simply did not cooperate with Blaine’s senses to let him hear what was being sung.
Sometimes the voice talked. Talked endlessly and onwardly. About what, Blaine couldn’t be sure.
Blaine wasn’t sure about most things.
Like why he continued to live.
Like why he should voice the fact he was awake.
Like why his mom was still there.
Like why any of this had ever happened.
He was very sure though, that this voice had something to do with the reason he should be getting up. Should be running towards the reason. Should be doing anything except lying there, useless as a corpse.
Then a thought dawned on him.
Maybe the voice, was the reason.