Chapter 4

DAVID:

I sigh, and even to my ears, it's a weary, distraught sound. I am so damn tired of the tirade Michael has been throwing on our return back to the airport.

"Michael, please, I'm begging you; stop. Just stop. Your voice is starting to cause damage to my eardrums. It's worse than fingernails scratching a fucking blackboard."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Surely you know what a metaphor is, right?

He looks at me helplessly. "Huh?"

I peer over at him briefly in part disbelief, part disgust before turning back to my driving. "Seriously? Did you graduate? Didn't you ever take any science classes?"

"Just the ones I needed to graduate; why?"

"Didn't you study the amplification of high-frequency noise and the effect it has on your eardrums?"

"How the fuck would I know? Brian did all my homework, because I didn't understand any of it."

"Of course, how foolish of me. Well, here's a newsflash for you: research studies have shown that ear-splitting noises have the same frequency as that of a human scream, and that they can literally cause pain. Which is what the decibel of your voice is doing right now. I'd like to avoid becoming deaf, so please tone it down.

"Thanks for the endearing words," Michael retorts. "What has gotten into you?"

I choose to ignore his whining as I head toward the short-term parking lot. I hold up my right hand in an unsuccessful plea for silence, but I know it will be futile as I inform him, "We'll be going into the airport in a minute, and I do not want to hear any more. I'm purchasing your ticket, and then you are on your own."

"How the hell do you expect me to get back to Pittsburgh on my own? Do you know how expensive a same-day ticket must be?"

I silently count to ten before I reply, "Is that all you're concerned about? Well, then your problem is solved; you'll be flying solo, compliments of yours truly. When you get there, call someone or take a cab. MY problem - you - is no longer my concern."

Michael's mouth drops open in disbelief as I bless my stroke of luck when someone backs out of a space near the departure terminal. "How am I supposed to walk to get on and off the plane?" I place the car in park and briefly close my eyes; there's that grumbling and complaining that is driving me insane. What did I ever see in this man-child?

"An airline agent will assist you; that's part of their job. I'm not returning to Pittsburgh. Sorry, but not sorry. You got yourself into this mess; you can get yourself out." I release my seatbelt and turn to face him. "Let me ask you something... If you hadn't come with me to Portland after you injured your leg, what would you have done?"

"I never thought about it. Besides, if I hadn't been rushing to get to the airport, I wouldn't have had this accident and ruined my new pair of jeans. Those cost me $80. Cash." He has the gall to hold out his hand expectantly.

I scoff in disgust. "Over my dead body. On second thought..." I pull out my wallet "... I'll give you the $80 and you can buy your own ticket home. How's that?"

"What the hell? I can't buy a ticket with that! Geez, how stupid are you?"

I wince at the screeching in his voice. "Extremely, apparently; after all, I took up with you, didn't I? To think I went so far as to ask Brian to back off and give me a chance for a relationship with you. And you know what? He honored my wishes. Then when everything was nice and cozy, you shit on your mother, your uncle, and all of your friends."

Michael's mouth hangs open as he peers at me with that hurt, puppy-dog look that he has mastered so well. "NOW what the hell are you talking about?"

"Senator Baxter's party. I tried to get you to calm down; instead, you went on a temper tantrum. Brian donated a hell of a lot of money for her cause. There was no reason you shouldn't have invited them in the first place."

"Are you crazy? They were an embarrassment! I still can't believe they thought so little of me that they would do that!"

"Seriously? That's rich coming from you! You are the epitome of embarrassment! Now, get out of the car." Opening the door, I slide out from the driver's side and start towards the entrance to the airport, when a loud screeching halts my progress. I let out a heavy sigh and roll my eyes as I reluctantly turn around. "Oh my God; what is it now, Michael?"

"How do you expect me to get in there?"

I shake my head in disgust. Thankfully about that time, a kindly-looking, uniformed man in his sixties comes out with a wheelchair and offers to assist Michael out of the car and into the airport. I decide I should probably get his luggage, so I head back to the car.

After we get to the ticketing agent's counter, I determine that I can book him on a return flight that leaves in about forty-five minutes. I discuss seating with the woman at the counter. Holding in my shit-eating grin, I turn to find a sullen Michael, still sitting in the wheelchair near a row of chairs. I make my way over to him.

"Here you go, Michael," I say as I hand him his ticket. "I've checked in all your luggage, so that's taken care of. It should make boarding and disembarking easier from the plane."

"You are seriously going to leave me to do this by myself?!" he screeches. People nearby turn to stare and ogle at a supposedly grownup male having yet another meltdown.

I tune his latest tirade out as I inform him, "Now, I got you a seat by the washroom in order to make it easier for you, just in case."

"Well, at least you did something right!"

"Yes, Michael, I did. And just before I would have made the biggest damn mistake in my life." I smile at him and pat him on the shoulder as I tell him, "Have a safe flight home, and good luck... I think you're going to need it."

"Meaning?"

I can't help smirking. "Just a figure of speech. Goodbye, Michael." I add quietly as I turn to go; after all, what is there left to say? Have a nice life? I'll miss you? No way. I only get about ten feet away, though, when I hear him again.

"David, hey, DAAAVVVIIID! Where's my pills?"

I turn around and smile. For just a brief moment, I regret that Michael will no doubt put all the service crew through hell on the way home, but this childish, selfish man is no longer my concern or responsibility. "I put them in your carry-on." And with that, I quickly disappear in the rush of people and head as fast as I can back to my car - and back to my own life.

 ~ ¤ ~

MICHAEL:

At least he left me my pills. As I look around for my carry-on, I ask the guy still standing by my wheelchair if he could find me some water, when suddenly David's parting words sink in. Rage builds up in me like a volcano until I couldn't keep in my fury any longer.

"YOU GODDAMN, MOTHERFUCKING, FUCKING ASSHOLE! I'M GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU!"

A security agent came running over at my declaration; I should have known saying something like that wasn't smart after 9-11, but the words were out of my mouth before I could consider the consequences. "Excuse me," he says as he towers over me, his badge shining as the bright sunlight bounces off of it, causing me to squint to see him clearly. "Would you care to explain that statement you just made? And in a normal speaking voice, not shouting."

"My asshole boyfriend checked in my carry-on bag with my medication in it, and I need them!" Despite the guard's admonishment, my voice rises as I speak; I'm convinced David did that deliberately to make my miserable life even more so.

"Sir, if you can't lower your voice and calm down, I will not permit you to go through security or board the plane. Do you understand?" His tone of voice leaves no doubt that he will carry out his warning as I sigh heavily in defeat.

"Yeah, yeah; fine. Just dandy," I can't help adding sarcastically. "But I'll need someone to help me get to the gate."

"I can take you down the ramp to board at the gate, but that's as far as I can go," the older man next to the wheelchair tells me.

I cross my arms over my chest and fume. "Fine. I'll just have to make do, then, won't I?"

The plane winds up being late, and then it turns out that the son-of-a-bitch didn't purchase my ticket in first class near the bathroom; instead, he bought me a ticket in economy. 18B. As I slowly make my way back, stopping at every seat to lean back and catch my breath, it takes longer than the allotted time, and I can hear the passengers behind me cursing under their breath due to my lack of speed. Just as I collapse in my seat, the door to the bathroom opens behind me and someone comes out, bumping my knee in the process. After a string of expletives, I'm advised by a mean-looking male flight attendant to sit down and be quiet, or they will contact the FAA.

I glare up at him. "What the hell is the FAA?"

He starts walking away before stopping to turn around and say, "Really? It's the Federal Aviation Administration. Keep up with the disruptiveness and you'll find out exactly what they can do, including removing you from this plane."

The flight attendant gives one final, piercing glare before he turns to assist another passenger. Defeated, I lie back and shut my eyes, trying to ignore the stabbing pain in my knee.

Ten minutes later, the same passenger that went into the bathroom earlier is going back in. When he opens the door to come out... I decide to be proactive, letting out a screech before he has a chance to bump my knee.

"What the hell! You were just in there! Can't you fucking hold it?"

"Excuse me? That's none of your damn business, you moron!"

"Just be fucking careful when you go in and out! I damaged my knee, in case you hadn't noticed!"

He glares down at me and snorts. "Well, take it out of the aisle, and it won't get hit."

"Duh! I would if I could, but I can't bend it to get it behind the seat. Besides, it's not my fault some asshole decided to..." I trail off, realizing I had almost said aloud what had really happened in that parking garage.

Forty minutes later, after a steady stream of people have come and gone to the bathroom, my knee is worse than ever, having been bumped more times than I can count. I overheard one of the other passengers mention that someone had paid for unlimited drinks for everyone on board, and I can't help but wonder who would do that. As I lay my head back once again to try to relax, I practically shoot out of my chair when I realize who the generous benefactor had been...

"THAT GODDAMN, FUCKING, SON-OF-A-BITCH ASSHOLE! DAVID DID THIS!"

A few seconds later, seemingly out of nowhere, the same flight attendant as before is standing right in front of me in the aisle. This time, however, a man dressed in a co-pilot's uniform is standing beside him, and he does all the talking. "That was your last warning, sir. We'll be contacting the FAA about having an unruly passenger on board. What they decide to do with you will be their business. For now, however, you need to come with me."

"Where? I can't walk!"

"I'll assist you," the man says, leaving no doubt about whether or not I have a choice. As I unbuckle my seatbelt and stiffly rise to my feet with the taller man's aid, I feel my face flush with embarrassment and anger as everyone around me breaks out into applause.

Several painful minutes later, I find myself sitting in the galley across from the lavatory where one of the flight attendants normally sits, like some child in school who had been sent to the corner for their punishment. I feel furious, humiliated, and bewildered as I ponder David's behavior since we left Pittsburgh.

He had begged me to move to Portland, and just like that, he does a 360 on me. What would I have done if I couldn't have left right away? What am I going to do when I get back home? What am I gonna tell Ma, Uncle Vic, and the guys? Will they buy the story of my falling? Maybe I can tell them I fell at the airport. I can tell them I was in a hurry, so I tried climbing the escalator and got caught, and fell down those steps. Yeah, that sounds good. It's better than the steps at Emmett's; besides, Emmett might want to know why I was going to his apartment since I don't have anything left there.

I hear the captain over the loudspeaker announcing our imminent landing. As embarrassing as it was to be escorted to the front of the plane - out of sight of the other passengers - at least I assume they will allow me to get off before the other passengers do. Get off. Despite my pain, I had to smile at the double entendre.

"Something funny, sir?" the same flight attendant as before says with a sneer in his voice. He seems to have enjoyed all the pain that has been inflicted upon me. He's sitting directly across from me in preparation for our landing; the others are at the back of the plane.

"No, nothing. I'm assuming I'll be the first passenger off the plane?"

"Yeah well, we didn't have much choice. The FAA wants to talk to you, and we radioed ahead for an ambulance. The airline is not responsible for transporting you."

"Ambulance?" I hear the squeak in my voice, but I ignore it. "I don't want an ambulance! Once I get off the plane, I'll be fine."

"Can't do that, Sir. The gate agent when you boarded indicated you would need an ambulance upon arrival due to your condition." The attendant smirks before he adds, "And I must say, after your horrendous display of profanity and hostility during this flight, you might need to undergo a psychiatric evaluation as well."

My face turns red with fury as I sputter at this man's audacity. Psychiatric evaluation? "You homophobic, arrogant..." The rest of my words are suddenly drowned out by the loudspeaker as the co-pilot from before announces there will be a delay disembarking due to 'an injured passenger' needing priority assistance first.

There are boos and some people are shouting about how the fucking idiot ruined their flight. I figure I may just as well get the last word in as the door swings open and two gate agents walk in to lift me to my feet. I turn to face the glowering expressions of everyone impatiently standing with their carry-ons and shout, "SHUT THE HELL UP! I'M SICK OF ALL OF YOU INCONSIDERATE ASSHOLES! JUST GO TO HELL!"

 ~ ¤ ~

PAUL SHEFFIELD - ORTHOPEDIC SURGEON

I just arrived in the ER having been notified they needed me for a consultation on an incoming patient.

"Dr. Ross, what do you have?"

"Medical Records sent these X-rays down," he tells me as he hands me a rather large packet. "They received them via email from some doctor in DC. The patient should be arriving shortly. Apparently, the memo attached stated the patient will need an orthopedist and probably require arthroscopic surgery. Since you were already in the hospital, I wanted to confer with you before you left."

I nod as I slide open the packet to examine the documents and X-rays. "The patient's name is... Michael Novotny?"

"Yes, the nurse just informed me seconds before you arrived down here that the ambulance picked the patient up at the airport. ETA should be at any moment now."

I huff. "This better be as serious as this document says it is..." I stop, as a loud voice assails my ears. "Good Lord! What is going on? Doesn't that person realize this is a hospital?" The voice becomes instantly louder as the emergency doors burst open and two paramedics come in, rolling a gurney with a male sitting upright on the mat, one leg braced with straps to stabilize it. Despite his injury, it's quite obvious that his vocal cords are working just fine.

"GET ME A FUCKING DOCTOR! SOMEBODY GIVE ME SOME PAIN PILLS! SOMEBODY DO SOMETHING! ISN'T THIS A HOSPITAL? CAN'T YOU SEE I'M DYING HERE?" I wave the paramedics into the next available ER room.

"Mr. Novotny, I presume? First, I need you to tone it down; this is a hospital, and we can't have you upsetting our sick patients. It is Novotny, right?"

"Yes, yes! Can't you get me something for the pain? Pills, morphine, something? It's been hours since I've had anything."

"I can't give you anything for pain until you have been thoroughly checked out. By the way, what medication did you take, and how long ago was it?"

"I'm not sure how long ago; it was before we boarded the plane. I took five Advil and two Dramamine."

"Mr. Novotny, you... you know, I'm not going to give you a lecture regarding the usage of medication right now. But that amount of medication was excessive and could have had serious ramifications, especially at a high altitude. But never mind that. I was just looking at the X-rays and the memo we received from Dr. Samuel Cromley in DC and it appears as if you have a severely torn MCL, which Dr. Comley feels will need arthroscopic surgery."

"Who the hell does that doctor think he is? I didn't tell him he could send my X-rays or put his stupid two cents' worth in! I'M GONNA SUE HIM!"

"Calm down, Mr. Novotny; that would be pretty hard to do, as we have a copy with your signature authorizing the doctor to pass along this information." I cast a skeptical look at the patient before continuing. "It does surprise me, though, as you certainly don't look like the sports type to me. Looking at the X-rays, I can tell you are going to need emergency surgery. You've really taken a bad hit to your knee."

"What the hell? Why does everyone keep saying that? I DON'T PLAY SPORTS! I FELL, DAMMIT!"

"As I said, the X-rays confirm a severely torn MCL, which suggests the knee suffered blunt-force trauma. We need to get you up to the OR, STAT."

As the extra hospital personnel that Dr. Ross contacted comes into the room, I ask my patient, "Out of curiosity, Mr. Novotny, how come you returned here instead of remaining in DC? You shouldn't have been walking on it. You've probably caused more damage than what was originally there. But hopefully, we can get it fixed up, so you can at least walk without a limp."

"It wasn't my choice. I was told I was going home, and then rudely dumped on a plane, not that it's any of your business!"

I shake my head and sigh; this patient certainly doesn't evoke sympathy at all. "Get him prepped," I curtly tell the nurse in the room, who nods. "I'll follow you up." I start to exit Novotny's room as two orderlies come in to take the patient up to the orthopedic surgery floor. At least the next time I see him, he will hopefully be under anesthesia and unable to scream his head off.

When the elevator doors open on the surgical floor a few minutes later, three people move out of the orderlies' way as they bring the patient out. We barely get off the elevator when a flame-haired woman screeches, "Michael? MICHAEL?! Oh, my poor baby! What happened?!"

"Ma? MA?! Uncle Vic! BRIAN! Oh, my God, I'm so glad you were able to get here! I asked them in the ambulance to contact you, but I didn't think they would. I can't believe you all showed up to be with me!"

The red-headed woman - apparently this man's mother - frowns in confusion as she continues to wail, her hand now clutching the side railing of the gurney. "Michael, baby, your knee looks terrible! What happened to you? Where's David?" The decibel of the redhead's voice is rising steadily as I realize like mother, like son.

"Ma, I hurt so much! My knee is fucking killing me!" I notice that Novotny doesn't give her a direct answer to her question, and by the shocked looks on all three faces, I don't think any of them were aware he was coming in. I feel like I need to get the situation under control, anyway, as hovering loved ones always make every situation more difficult.

"I'm asking again, what the fuck happened? I'm his mother and I demand to know!" I swallow my surprise at the language this woman is using; now I know where the son must have gotten his vocabulary from, too.

"I can't disclose that inform..."

"Oh, for fuck's sake! She's my ma; don't you dare be rude to her. You can talk to her!"

I close my eyes and silently count to ten, while praying for strength. "Room 10," I tell the orderlies, noticing that it's the closest available room near the OR. I wait until my patient is inside with his mother and the others standing nearby, before I begin to explain about his injuries.

"Your son suffered blunt-force trauma..." I begin as I briefly review the emailed report I received from the DC doctor. "It says here that he sustained his injury at a friend's house - someone named Emmett - before leaving for the airport in Pittsburgh..."

"No, he's got it all wrong! Ma, I fell down the escalator at the airport! Then David sent me back. The trip was awful! I'm in so much pain. Help me, Ma! Make it better. Brian," I see him reach out for a man's hand, "wait here for me, and be here when I get back. I still can't believe you all showed up here! I would have thought the ambulance or airline wouldn't have cared enough to do that!"

"...as I was saying, your son suffered a hit to the knee; whether by blunt force or falling, he has a severely injured MCL, the medial collateral ligament."

"Oh, Michael! That sounds horrid! How could you do that much damage from falling?" His ma croaks out, tears running down her face. She's so close to hyperventilating, for a moment I'm tempted to check her vital signs.

I see more people milling around Novotny's door, looking worried and anxious. I wonder if they are friends or family.

My patient glances up as he notices them, too. "WAIT! How come Ted and Emmett are here? I didn't tell them to call anyone but you." For the first time, I see him scrutinize the drawn look on his friend's face as he asks in concern, "Is something wrong with Gus?"

I see the tall, dark-haired man squeeze his hand, reassuring him as he shakes his head. "No, nothing's wrong with Gus, Mikey. But we didn't come on account of what happened to you; we were already here. There was an incident - an attack. Justin was... fuck it." I notice the man named Brian briefly closes his eyes before he seems to come to a decision. "Never mind. He's going to be fine. We can talk about it later. For now, you just worry about coming out of surgery and getting better."

"What do you mean, ‘he's going to be fine'?! That can't be right!" Michael blurts out as I'm the one who's confused now. I have no idea what any of them are talking about, but it's the end of my shift, and the sooner I get this guy fixed up, the quicker I can finally leave and get some much-needed shut-eye.

"Yes, well, if you will all excuse me, I need to get ready for the surgery. And your son needs to be prepped, ma'am, which requires privacy and IV insertion. Please head down the hallway to the surgery waiting room, and we'll let you know how he is as soon as the surgery is over. Nurse, please see to it," I tell the RN on duty, who nods. I know this no-nonsense woman enough to trust her to carry out my instructions. I then head toward the door before anything more is said, unable to stand any more of the circus currently transpiring.

As I start to walk away toward the OR, however, I overhear a strangled gasp behind me. Fearing the worst, I turn around and hear the soft-spoken voice of the older gentleman who had been in the room with everyone else; he was now stopped in his tracks on his way to the surgery waiting room as he stands next to the man named Brian. "Brian? Brian! What's wrong? You look sick. Are you okay?" My eyes focus on the dark-haired, handsome man I had observed speaking to the patient before who did, indeed, suddenly look pale. His face abruptly darkens with what appears to be anger; however, when he answers the older man presently gripping his wrist, his voice betrays his horror over something.

"Holy shit, Vic! I don't want to believe it, but it all makes sense... the doc said ‘blunt force trauma'... Michael's story keeps changing. He can't even keep his lies straight!"

"What are you talking about?"

"Justin wasn't confused; he was right. Michael WAS at the prom. That son-of-a-bitch! Michael was the one who bashed Justin, and Michael is the one I hit in the right knee with the bat. GET THE POLICE HERE - NOW!"

TBC