"Clay, open the door!" I kept banging on the hard material with an open palm, begging for him to open it.

"No, I'm oka-"

The noise of him throwing up just proved that no, he wasn't okay like he claimed to be.

"I swear to god, I'm breaking the door if you don't open it right now!" I was getting so frustrated that he wouldn't even let me in to help him.

"What are you gonna do? Hold back my hair?" He was putting on a fight. And that was the longest sentence he got out yet without puking in the middle of it.

I used the opportunity and requested an Uber ride with his phone. If he doesn't want me to call an ambulance, I'll take him to the hospital by force.

Soon enough I heard him flushing the toilet, followed by the noise of the running water. He was probably brushing his teeth. The last thing I heard before he opened the door was the gargling sound that went on way longer that it usually would.

I was so worried and anxious, but the way he treated the situation was just inappropriately hilarious.

He just opened the door and stood there under the doorframe, looking at me in a way that I already knew he was about to say something stupid.

"Mom, I threw up."

And there it is.

"The ride's almost here," I checked his phone, "grab whatever you need, we're going."

"What? Where are we going?" He pouted, probably knowing the answer.

"To the hospital. To get you checked." I made the tone of my voice as strict as I could to avoid his complaints. And apparently it worked.

He changed his blood stained shirt, losing his balance a few times while doing so.

My phone was as useless as it could get, so instead of taking it with me I just left it to charge.

And the ride to the nearest hospital was silent for the most part. But then I remembered something.

"Wait.. weren't you supposed to pick up your sister?"

He nodded, keeping his head leaned back to the seat. That was just a clear indication of him feeling unwell.

"I told her to go to our auntie's," his voice held no energy, "hope she won't get lung cancer from breathing in the cigarette smoke."

I did have faint memories of them comparing my voice to their auntie's when I had tonsillitis. And to be fair, it all made sense now.

One of my major worries during the ride was the possibility of Clay getting nauseous and throwing up. However, the hospital turned out to be close enough for us to get there in a small amount of time - without casualties.

I knew I was about to feel lightheaded from the medicine smell when we entered the reception. On the other hand there was a positive twist as well, cause the reception lady was pretty sweet to us. Even though the first thing she said sounded something like this:

"Ow, that looks nasty," looking at the already bruised wound, the lady scrunched up her nose, "what happened?"

I fought the urge of coming up with something, remembering all the times I performed horribly while trying to come up with lies under pressure. So I left that one on Clay. And after a second of thinking, he spoke.

"I sleepwalk."

I knew that he wasn't good at coming up with stuff either, but hearing his answer made me realize one thing: he was so much worse at it than I thought he was.

Of course the lady looked at him with a questioning gaze, wondering what the hell he was talking about. Banging your head to the wall while sleepwalking wouldn't cause such an injury. Not only his lie was ridiculously funny, but it was also unbelievable.

"I sleepwalk, so uh.. I fell down the stairs and hit my head to the sharp edge of the furniture." Clay added some details, realizing how absurdly confusing he sounded.

I don't know if the hospital just didn't care or they've heard worse things. But the whole thing resulted in them not asking anymore questions and sending Clay to a cabinet to get checked.

Those 20 minutes were the longest in my life, sitting in the reception and breathing in the eerie smell. I didn't even have Clay's phone with me to play his weirdly addicting puzzle games to kill some time. I was stuck staring at the ticking clock on the wall.

But then he came out with the doctor, with a bandage secured on his forehead, making me quickly stand up. He had a smile on his face despite everything, even though the doctor held a completely different face expression. He was just.. unamused.

"Mr. Sleepwalker has 4 stitches now. And a mild concussion." He announced.

Do all doctors talk like this? Anyways, I wasn't that surprised from his words. As someone who had a concussion from falling in the shower, I pretty much figured he'd have it too just by comparing the symptoms. My only concern was finding out that he had something more serious, but luckily he didn't.

Clay already was holding a prescription in his hands. But there were more details that the doctor had to just explain to us.

Turns out I had to change his bandage myself throughout these 2 weeks. And by the end of it, he'll probably get the stitches removed. I was paying attention to every single detail the doctor mentioned. I never felt more important in my life before.

"Take pills if the pain gets too much," he pointed at the prescription, "your forehead's gonna feel pretty sore after the numbing goes away. And the concussion results in pretty bad headaches also, so don't freak out."

I kept feeling more and more bad for the poor thing as the doctor kept talking. He was probably in so much pain right now as well, and didn't even complain for a second.

"The only reliable solution for this is getting plenty of rest," we were finally getting to the end of the speech, "but don't sleep too much though. You might end up walking down the roof this time."

And with that brilliant knee slapper, we were free to go home.