Chapter 3 - Not-Angie
Submitted June 17, 2007 Updated June 17, 2007 Status Incomplete | Colt is a good kid. His mom is dead and his father is in the slammer, so he takes care of his brother, Angie. But, one snow day when Colt has to be at work, a gang takes things too far and Angie and Kohl, Colt's boyfriend, get into major trouble.
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Chapter 3 - Not-Angie
Chapter 3 - Not-Angie
I made it to St. Mary’s in record time.
I hopped out of the Gremlin, hitting my head pretty hard on the way out, ran in and asked the receptionist where I could find Givanni Tremelo.
“The ER, but he’s in surgery right now,” said the helpful nun behind the counter. She was giving me a strange/alarmed look.
“Thanks,” I told her, running off to the ER. I felt something wet on my head, but that was forced out of my mind as I stepped in and saw Kohl, his head in his hands, sitting next to an Asian boy who was chewing his nail and had a large piece of gauze over half of his face.
“Kohl,” I said. He merely sagged some more. I walked over and sat next to him. He looked up and his eyes were red, swollen, hurt and afraid. He had a black eye and his eyeliner had run.
“It’s all my fault!” he cried, throwing himself into my arms. “I didn’t mean fro it to happen, I didn’t, I’m sorry, Colt, it’s all my fault!” he sobbed. “One minute we’re making a snow man, the next minute, I’m slashed up and Angie’s been shot!”
“Angie’s been shot?” I asked hollowly.
I felt him nod into my jacket. “I’m sorry, it’s all my fault,” he replied, his voice muffled.
I lifted him off me. “Where were you slashed?”
He held his shirt up. He was bandaged all across his stomach. “They already took care of me,” he said, letting his shirt fall. “You might want to have them look at you.” He touched my head and when he retracted his fingers, they were red.
“Musta started bleeding when I banged it on the car,” I muttered, holding my scarf up to it.
“They will take care of you, too,” said the Asian kid. “Kohl should not be talking. It is my bad that Angie is hurt now.”
“Who exactly are you?” I demanded.
“Ming-Shi Ran,” he sighed, slumping against the seat. “I am new here from China.”
“It was the ProC’s!” said Kohl.
“Damn,” I muttered. The ProC’s were a gang in our neighborhood, the name was short for ProCreationists Think of them as the extreme catholic republicans. They prey on gays, foreigners, women who’ve had abortions, Jews, Bhuddists, and anyone who stands in their way. They were, essentially, Nazis. They were the ones who’d hurt Kohl, Ming-Shi, and, most importantly, Angie.
We waited a long time. Kohl and Ming-Shi had to go home eventually, but I stayed. With no one to talk to, I was left with the memories. Last Halloween, I was a devil and he was an angel. I remember how he used to ride on my back, and how I always teased him about the fact that he was 15 and still played with plastic planes in the bath tub. The thing that stuck out the most, though, was that I had never said I loved him. Before I’d left to go to work, I hadn’t told him to be safe, and that I loved him.
It was a long night.
At around three AM, the doctor (whom I’d been pestering relentlessly every time he came out) told me he was out of surgery.
“We managed to remove the majority of the shrapnel from his chest, but we had to graft some skin from his leg onto his wound.”
“But he’ll be okay?”
“I…yes, he’ll be fine,” said the doc reluctantly.
“Can I see him?” was the next thing I demanded.
“He’s sleeping now,” said the doc hesitatingly.
“I’ll be real quiet, I promise!” I pleaded.
The doc sighed. “I suppose so.” He laid a hand on my arm, much in the way that Roxy had earlier today. “You get some rest too, son. You must not be a day older than nineteen.”
“Seventeen,” I corrected him. “Almost eighteen.”
“Seventeen, but it lists you as the primary caregiver,” said the doc, looking over his notes. Recognition clicked in his eyes. “Were you two part of the Tremelo case last year?”
“Yeah, Colt and Givanni Tremelo.”
“You probably don’t remember me, but I’m Gustav Hark. Your mother was a friend of mine. I paid my respects at the funeral, but you were ten. You’ve gotten so big since then. And your brother…your brother…” He seemed to remember my original question. He cleared his throat. “Yes, you can see him.” He opened a swinging door and led me through to Angie’s room.
Angie looked awful.
He had tubes in his arm, stomach, and nose. He had a heart monitor and several more beeping machines that I couldn’t recognize.
He looked dead.
“He’s…” I started. I had to stop because I was tearing up. My heart ached to see Angie like that. “That’s not Angie,” I said thickly. “Angie’s full of life, always telling me to stop smoking or smiling his freakin’ face off.” The kid in the bed might have had red hair and freckles, but he wasn’t the brother I took care of. He wasn’t Angie. “That’s not Angie,” I repeated.
“I’ll leave you alone,” said Dr. Hark. I heard the door close, but I didn’t see him: my eyes were still focused on Not-Angie.
“Angie, Not-Angie, whoever you are, listen,” I started, taking a seat in the hard hospital chair. “I know you probably can’t hear me, but…but I want my brother back.” I began to cry. “I just…I just want my brother back.” I fell asleep like that, crying and pleading for my brother back.
I hopped out of the Gremlin, hitting my head pretty hard on the way out, ran in and asked the receptionist where I could find Givanni Tremelo.
“The ER, but he’s in surgery right now,” said the helpful nun behind the counter. She was giving me a strange/alarmed look.
“Thanks,” I told her, running off to the ER. I felt something wet on my head, but that was forced out of my mind as I stepped in and saw Kohl, his head in his hands, sitting next to an Asian boy who was chewing his nail and had a large piece of gauze over half of his face.
“Kohl,” I said. He merely sagged some more. I walked over and sat next to him. He looked up and his eyes were red, swollen, hurt and afraid. He had a black eye and his eyeliner had run.
“It’s all my fault!” he cried, throwing himself into my arms. “I didn’t mean fro it to happen, I didn’t, I’m sorry, Colt, it’s all my fault!” he sobbed. “One minute we’re making a snow man, the next minute, I’m slashed up and Angie’s been shot!”
“Angie’s been shot?” I asked hollowly.
I felt him nod into my jacket. “I’m sorry, it’s all my fault,” he replied, his voice muffled.
I lifted him off me. “Where were you slashed?”
He held his shirt up. He was bandaged all across his stomach. “They already took care of me,” he said, letting his shirt fall. “You might want to have them look at you.” He touched my head and when he retracted his fingers, they were red.
“Musta started bleeding when I banged it on the car,” I muttered, holding my scarf up to it.
“They will take care of you, too,” said the Asian kid. “Kohl should not be talking. It is my bad that Angie is hurt now.”
“Who exactly are you?” I demanded.
“Ming-Shi Ran,” he sighed, slumping against the seat. “I am new here from China.”
“It was the ProC’s!” said Kohl.
“Damn,” I muttered. The ProC’s were a gang in our neighborhood, the name was short for ProCreationists Think of them as the extreme catholic republicans. They prey on gays, foreigners, women who’ve had abortions, Jews, Bhuddists, and anyone who stands in their way. They were, essentially, Nazis. They were the ones who’d hurt Kohl, Ming-Shi, and, most importantly, Angie.
We waited a long time. Kohl and Ming-Shi had to go home eventually, but I stayed. With no one to talk to, I was left with the memories. Last Halloween, I was a devil and he was an angel. I remember how he used to ride on my back, and how I always teased him about the fact that he was 15 and still played with plastic planes in the bath tub. The thing that stuck out the most, though, was that I had never said I loved him. Before I’d left to go to work, I hadn’t told him to be safe, and that I loved him.
It was a long night.
At around three AM, the doctor (whom I’d been pestering relentlessly every time he came out) told me he was out of surgery.
“We managed to remove the majority of the shrapnel from his chest, but we had to graft some skin from his leg onto his wound.”
“But he’ll be okay?”
“I…yes, he’ll be fine,” said the doc reluctantly.
“Can I see him?” was the next thing I demanded.
“He’s sleeping now,” said the doc hesitatingly.
“I’ll be real quiet, I promise!” I pleaded.
The doc sighed. “I suppose so.” He laid a hand on my arm, much in the way that Roxy had earlier today. “You get some rest too, son. You must not be a day older than nineteen.”
“Seventeen,” I corrected him. “Almost eighteen.”
“Seventeen, but it lists you as the primary caregiver,” said the doc, looking over his notes. Recognition clicked in his eyes. “Were you two part of the Tremelo case last year?”
“Yeah, Colt and Givanni Tremelo.”
“You probably don’t remember me, but I’m Gustav Hark. Your mother was a friend of mine. I paid my respects at the funeral, but you were ten. You’ve gotten so big since then. And your brother…your brother…” He seemed to remember my original question. He cleared his throat. “Yes, you can see him.” He opened a swinging door and led me through to Angie’s room.
Angie looked awful.
He had tubes in his arm, stomach, and nose. He had a heart monitor and several more beeping machines that I couldn’t recognize.
He looked dead.
“He’s…” I started. I had to stop because I was tearing up. My heart ached to see Angie like that. “That’s not Angie,” I said thickly. “Angie’s full of life, always telling me to stop smoking or smiling his freakin’ face off.” The kid in the bed might have had red hair and freckles, but he wasn’t the brother I took care of. He wasn’t Angie. “That’s not Angie,” I repeated.
“I’ll leave you alone,” said Dr. Hark. I heard the door close, but I didn’t see him: my eyes were still focused on Not-Angie.
“Angie, Not-Angie, whoever you are, listen,” I started, taking a seat in the hard hospital chair. “I know you probably can’t hear me, but…but I want my brother back.” I began to cry. “I just…I just want my brother back.” I fell asleep like that, crying and pleading for my brother back.
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