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Melissa sits in the hospital waiting room, staring anxiously at the door. She has been told that she can’t go with Milo, that she has to wait for the police to come. That she will have to wait to be cleared by the police, that it could be weeks before she can see Milo.
And she is glad! She is glad that they are taking these precautions for Milo’s safety, for his security.
But that doesn’t mean that she isn’t terrified. She needs to be with him. She needs to! Milo needs her. She is the person who he trusts the most. And she is scared of what might happen to him while she isn’t watching. She is scared of what people might do to him, when he is so, so vulnerable.
So she sits in the waiting room, arms crossed tightly, tapping her foot rapidly. Many of the doctors and nurses are sympathetic. One nurse, who remembers her from when she used to visit Milo in the hospital, has comforted her a lot.
But not everyone is completely sympathetic. Some are tense- polite and sympathetic, but with a slight air of distrust. Some are tense, with no friendliness. There are two security guards at the door, outright glaring at her and Zack. She knows full well that if she tried to run away, she would probably end up pinned to the wall.
Everyone is wondering the same thing. Are Melissa and Zack villains, or heroes? Did they help Milo, or hurt him? Right now, they are suspects.
She fidgets. After a burst of fear, of action, now she is just waiting. Waiting and waiting and waiting.
She catches a glimpse of herself in some nearby glass. She is still wearing her bright red polo shirt, with Intern of the Month emblazoned across it. It makes her feel sick. It may technically be quite comfortable, but it itches and burns at her skin.
Zack glances at her. “What’s wrong?” He asks quietly. They have gotten used to snatched whispers, to quiet conversations, to hiding from the people around them. They have gotten used to being able to trust only each other.
“You want the whole list?” She whispers back. He snorts dryly. “I… I hate this fucking shirt.”
“You could take it off, now that we’re out of there.” Zack says.
Melissa fidgets with the edge of it, sighing. “Yeah, that would not be decent.”
Zack thinks for a few moments. “I have a hoodie.” He says. “You could put that on.” He has already shed his red polo shirt, since he wore a long sleeved shirt underneath it.
“You sure?” Melissa asks. “It’s pretty cold in here.”
“I’ll be a bit cold, but you’re miserable, Mel.” Zack says, shoving the hoodie into her hands. “Go change, before you scratch that shirt right off your body.”
So she stands, shuffling over to the security guards. They just look at her, and she gulps. Do they think that she’s evil? Cruel? Do they believe that she hurt Milo? Or are they just being cautious? “I need to go change.”
“Why?” One asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Because… because I hate this shirt.” She admits. “I had to wear it at the facility to avoid suspicion, but I hate it. I hate them.”
She sees the guard’s expression soften. “Ok, come on.”
He walks with her, and waits outside the bathroom as she goes in. She darts for a cubicle, and hurriedly wriggles out of her shirt. She tosses it down roughly, kicking it for good measure.
She puts on Zack’s bright yellow hoodie, zips it up, and heads out with her shirt in hand. The security guard nods to her. “You look more comfortable now.” He remarks.
She goes back to Zack. “Thanks.” She says. She immediately feels more comfortable, less itchy. She is still unhappy, frightened, guilty. But at least she doesn’t want to rip her skin off. “I’ll give it back to you.”
“Keep it.” He squeezes her hand. “I have plenty.”
She puts the hood up, snuggling into it. Zack leans against her shoulder. And they wait.
———
She sits on the couch, still buzzing. The cops were very nice to her, very gentle. But being interrogated was still extremely nerve wracking, extremely stressful.
And she still can’t see Milo, not until she’s gone to court and been cleared.
She curls up, putting up her hood. Zack’s hoodie is baggy and comfortable on her. It feels comfortable, a hug from someone who understands. From someone who went through the same thing.
“Is there anything you need, sweetheart?” Her dad tucks a flyaway curl behind her ear. He has been hovering around her since he picked her up- concerned, protective, terrified. She knows that he feels guilty, for not noticing what was happening. For not noticing what she was doing, how had she was feeling.
She leans against his side, closing her eyes. “I just feel so… so awful.” She admits. “There’s so much…”
“Do you want to eat yet?” Her dad asks.
She shakes her head. “I feel sick.” She opens her eyes, blinking back tears. All she wants is to be with Milo. She hates imagining him alone in the hospital, confused and frightened.
Her eyes are drawn to a patch of red on the floor. Blood red blood Milo’s blood-
“Melissa?” A hand on her shoulder. She jumps, rushing to stand up. “Whoa! It’s ok, it’s just me.”
She blinks, her hands still held in the air, fists still clenched. Her dad is standing there, smiling comfortingly, even as his eyebrows form a concerned frown. “Are you alright? I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s ok.” She mutters, sitting back down. “I’m fine.”
He sits down next to her and hugs her. Her eyes are drawn back to the red. Not blood. Her polo shirt, hastily dropped like a hot coal as soon as she got inside. She never wants to see it again. It may not be a puddle of blood, but it reminds her of the blood on her hands- she may not have killed anyone, but she is responsible for so much of the pain that Milo went through.
The red uniforms of the containment facility seem ironic now. She worshipped a building full of people who were covered in blood.
“Uh… dad?” She blurts out. “There is something I want, but I don’t know if you’re gonna like it.”
He strokes her hair gently. “Whatever you want.” He promises, voice trembling a little. “Ice cream for dinner?” They both chuckle at a long running joke between them.
“A fire?” She asks. She feels him tense.
———
Melissa drops the stupid fucking shirt on the hard concrete in the back garden. She lights a match, and drops it on the pile of crumbled fabric.
It catches immediately, and a flame flares up. She watches as the fabric begins to char and burn, is consumed by the flames. The lettering disappears. Intern of the Month.
Smoke drifts up to her nose. She just stands there, watching the shirt burn into nothing. Her eyes start to water, and she doesn’t think that is because of the smoke.
And the shirt is gone. All that is left is a pile of ashes on the concrete, a few torn fragments of charred red fabric. She kicks it, scattering the ashes in the wind. She mutters a curse, an insult towards the keepers that would probably give her dad a heart attack if he heard it. She wishes that she could burn them into nothingness like she did the shirt.
The shirt is gone, and she feels a burning sense of satisfaction. She hated that thing. But ashes of discontent remain in her stomach, flying in the breeze, unable to escape. A tear runs down her cheek.