Chapter Text
The first thing he hears is beeping. It's a repetitive, steady sound, once every second or so, and quite frankly annoying. For a moment, Tiger thinks it might be his alarm clock— except he doesn't have one. It's too quiet, and almost rhythmic, to be an alarm anyway. There's a strong smell, too; something like citrus and antiseptic. He tries to open his eyes, but his lids are too heavy to move. In fact, his whole body feels as though it's been weighed down— the most he can manage is slightly twitching his fingers, and even that's an effort. He's laying on something, a mattress maybe. A firm, uncomfortable one.
Although it's slow, Tiger is able to crack his eyelids open a bit. Instantly he regrets it. Pale, fluorescent lighting practically blinds him. It feels like little needles are stabbing into his irises. Ugh. He forces himself not to close them again, instead opting to squint a bit, letting them adjust.
The ceiling above is stark white tile, making the room feel much brighter than it probably truly is. The more his senses come back to him, the stronger the artificial smell becomes. Tiger has the strangest feeling that he should be in some amount of pain, but he can't register anything aside from a sort of dull numbness throughout his limbs. And his eye… now that he notices, he can't see anything out of his left eye. For a moment he tries to reach up and touch it, to make sure it's actually open, but his arms remain stubbornly uncooperative. It's probably better than excruciating pain, but that doesn't make it any less frustrating.
He's able to turn his head just about an inch to the right, albeit very slowly. A hospital room. He's in a hospital room. Stark white walls match the tile of the ceiling. There's a grey chair with plastic armrests and uncomfortable-looking, cracked vinyl cushioning only inches from where he's laying. No one sits in it. That obnoxious beeping, which has still been going, is coming from a machine attached to the side of the bed. The screen shows jagged green lines— his heartbeat— and some numbers beneath that don't really mean anything to him. Wires hang off it and are probably hooked up to him somewhere, but he can't move his head enough to actually check.
What happened to him? How did he get here? Where is here? And perhaps most importantly, where the hell is everyone else? Tiger squeezes his eyes (or maybe eye, now) shut, trying to bring back anything, any hint of how he'd ended up in this hospital. All he gets is a big, frustrating blank where memories should be. There are a handful of fuzzy snippets that surface, but nothing substantial.
The band had been in Oregon. There was that disaster of a 'show,' but then that guy with the stupid hair— Chad? Tom?— had set them up with… his cousin? Something about them getting paid 350 bucks up front for playing as an opening act? Last he remembers, he was driving them to the venue.
Shit. Did he fall asleep at the wheel again? He's done it a few times in the past and driven off the road, but maybe he crashed for real this time. Oh, fuck, well done Tiger. He's probably gone and killed everyone, all because he's too much of a stubborn asshole to just pull over and sleep.
Relax, you don't know for sure that's what happened.
He groans lowly and shifts, though his body still doesn't actually move much. Tiger wishes he could shake off the fog that feels like it has wrapped around his brain, making it impossible to think. It's dragging him
back
down-
• - - - - • • ✦ ☾ ✦ • • - - - - •
When he comes back around, his body seems to be more cooperative. Though still slow and definitely uncoordinated, he can at least move more than before. He tentatively lifts his hand, ignoring how stiff it feels, and brushes it along the left side of his face. It feels like there's soft bandaging wrapped around most of it, particularly where his eye should be. He presses his fingers against it, which causes a deep pain to throb under them. Luckily, it fades away once he stops, probably aided by whatever medication is currently being pumped into him through the catheter injected in his arm. Was that there last time?
Tiger forces himself to half sit up, leaning against the railing of the bed for support. His limbs still refuse to do exactly what he wants them to, but it's definitely an improvement. He has to get up. Has to get out of here and find everyone. Or at the least, confirm that it isn't his fault they've ended up in a hospital. He tries to sit fully up, to swing his legs over and stand, and for a moment he thinks it's going to work.
Then the railing gives way with a loud crack, and he's facedown on the linoleum floor. Something else toppled down with him, and it's making a horrible screeching noise. A small puddle of blood is forming in his vision— either one of his injuries re-opened, or his nose has been crushed upon impact.
Well, that's just great.
As the hospital door swings open and voices are shouting above him, he thinks to himself, You really are a fucking idiot, Tiger.
Well done, indeed.