Chapter Text
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𝙏𝙚𝙡𝙡 𝙢𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙢𝙚, 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙩𝙤 𝙝𝙖𝙪𝙣𝙩 𝙢𝙚.
𝙊𝙝, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙄 𝙧𝙪𝙨𝙝 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙩...
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Rodrick swears he sees a ghost.
The emergency room is a melting pot of noises, complaints, and sterile scents— and Rodrick is a fan to none them.
He sighs, as he pressed his back against the plastic waiting room chair-- the buzz from his late-night classroom whiskey was wearing down. A bad habit, sure. But sometimes it’s the only thing that keeps him from tearing his hair out while grading his 5th grade students’ pitiful attempts at treble clefs.
Unfortunately, it comes with side effects, like the pain in his hand. He flexes his fingers, winces, and regrets punching that classroom wall. A moment of anger, a moment of lost judgement; he isn’t sure which excuse to use yet in his eventual apology letter to the principal, his boss.
He looks around at the other sad saps in the waiting room. He wants his number called. He wants another drink. But what he wants most of all is his Loded Diper Van back.
He wants to get behind the wheel, drive to nowhere, and keep going until the gas runs out. He doesn’t want to go home; it doesn’t feel like home anymore. He can’t walk down the street, buy groceries, or go to work and pretend five years didn’t pass without him.
But, he could sit in the familiar cocoon of his van and drive and maybe feel like himself. for a while, at least. Until he had to stop. And maybe he won’t stop at all.
The waiting room speaker crackles. “Patient 112 to triage.”
Rodrick sighs, glancing at the paper ticket in his hands. 114. Great. This was taking forever. He tilts his head back and thinks about the day he learned the van was gone.
It was during his first week post-Blip. He’d asked where it was, not really expecting anyone to know—or care. Greg told him: it was at the bottom of the Hudson River, a burnt-out shell. It was Greg, his little brother - now technically not-so little anymore— who told him. With that gleam in his eyes that spoke of payback for childhood sins and a total lack of sympathy mixed with a lot of brotherly teasing, because Greg doesn’t get that he’s not his brother anymore.
Because Rodrick isn’t a person anymore.
He’s a ghost, wandering through streets that left him behind.
He stares at the space where the wall meets the floor. He used to love that van. It’s stupid, but he needs it now. How else can he explain the urge to cry over a car? He hadn’t cried over the first one, even though it reeked of Manny’s baby food and his mother’s antiseptic wipes. Or the second one, the one Regina crashed during her driving lessons. That one smelled like her perfume and the cigarettes she hid in his glovebox, the ones she swore she didn’t smoke.
He wonders where she is now.
Did she come back to find the world just as empty as he did?
Did she come back at all?
Rodrick’s heard the stories—people who never reappeared, whose dust never reformed. The thought makes him shudder.
Maybe he doesn’t feel like crying after all. Because he doesn’t. He just feels like puking. And he doesn’t do that either. He just feels alone. And if someone sat beside him right now, he wouldn’t know what to do with the company—except lie.
The speaker crackles to life again— ”Patient 114 to triage, Patient 114 to triage.”
He sighs, getting up; lying would have to wait.
The triage area smells like hand sanitizer and something faintly metallic. Rodrick shuffles through the doorway, cradling his busted hand, and that's when he sees her.
Maybe it was the cast of her shadow under the sterile lights, maybe it was something far less — or far more — but he knows, even before she turns to face him. Somehow beyond a doubt, Regina George… lives. And ghosts never die.
She looked… older. But then again, so was he. Her brows furrowed at the file in her hands, eyes weary; with sleep and something else he couldn’t quite name. She's wearing scrubs. Scrubs. Regina George wouldn't be caught dead in hospital scrubs— except if they were branded by Juicy Couture.
But it was her hair… that surprised him. Crisp brown, in the place of the champagne blonde— he wonders how often she dyes it. Besides, this was the same girl who once told him that, “Blonde’s have more fun, Roddy.”.
"Reg?"
It comes out rougher than he intended, almost a croak.
She glances up, distracted—looks past him first, like she's searching for whoever actually spoke. Then her eyes land on him. There's no recognition there. No flash of anger, no smirk, no anything.
Just polite confusion.
"I'm sorry?" She steps closer, professional smile already in place. "Are you patient 114?"
"I—" Rodrick's mouth is dry. "Regina?"
Her expression shifts not to recognition, but to the kind of patient concern doctors use on confused people. "My name is Dr. Palmer. Christine Palmer." She glances down at his hand, then back at his face. "Let's take a look at that hand, okay?"
She gestures for him to sit on the hospital bed. The paper sheet crackles under him like frost. He stares at her hands, steady, practiced, as she lifts his wrist, rotating it with careful pressure. Her touch is light, detached, the kind doctors have to learn. The kind his Regina never had.
“Says in your initial triage, that you said you punched something?” she asks, not looking up.
“A wall,” Rodrick mutters. “At work.”. He winces at his own words; God, Principal Finnigan was going to have a field day with him. If the school music budget wasn’t already in jeopardy, then it certainly was now.
Her brow lifts, barely. “That’ll do it.”
He watches her in profile, that calm, professional mask. The lights hum overhead, and for a second he swears it’s the static between radio stations.
“Dyed your hair, huh Reg?”
Christine looks up, puzzled. “It's Dr. Palmer. And no— natural brunette. Though I went blonde for a year in college. Hated it. Maybe that’s where you recognize me from?”
He almost laughs. “No. No… we went to school before then.”
She tilts her head, that familiar little angle Regina used to use when she pretended to listen. The motion knocks the air from his lungs.
“I think you’re mistaken,” she says, returning to his hand. “Mister…” She quickly leans over to check his file, “Mr. Heffley.” She flips open the file clipped to the edge of the bed. “You’re one of the—” she hesitates just slightly, the pause small enough to miss if he hadn’t been listening— “one of the returned? From the Blip?”
He hates the word. Returned. Like a misplaced package. He doesn’t meet her eye, but in his silence she finds an answer.
Christine hums. “Right. I thought so.” She sets down the file. “Me too.”
Rodrick blinks. “You too?”
Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Five years gone. Woke up in the same apartment, same clothes. Like no time passed at all.” She’s matter-of-fact, but there’s something brittle underneath. “Except time did pass.”
Rodrick winces, “Everything… feels different.”
She nods, makes a note. Doesn't look at him. "It must be disorienting. A lot of patients experience confusion, false memories, even—"
"I'm not confused."
Christine,— no, Regina—pauses. Her pen hovers over the paper.
"I know you," Rodrick continues, softer now. "We went to North Shore High. We were both in the same class. You totaled my van during your driving test, remember? Your mom paid for the repairs but you—" He almost smiles. "You left a dent in the bumper on purpose. Said it gave it character.”
Something flickers across her face. Not recognition. Something else. Discomfort, maybe. "Mr. Heffley, I went to school in New Jersey. I've never been to—" She glances at the file. "—Illinois."
"You're lying."
It comes out harsher than he means it to. She takes a small step back, professional mask slipping just enough that he can see the woman underneath. The one who looks tired. The one who looks like she's had this conversation before; maybe with a dementia patient, maybe with another Blipper.
"I'm not," she says, and her voice is gentle in a way that makes his chest ache. "I understand this is difficult. The Blip caused a lot of trauma, and sometimes our minds try to fill in gaps—"
"You're lying," he repeats, but there's no heat in it now. Just certainty. "Or you forgot. Maybe you forgot, Reg. Maybe something happened and you—"
"My name is Christine." Firmer now, drawing a line. "I'm going to order an X-ray for your hand. Possible fracture of the fourth and fifth metacarpals. You'll need to wait for radiology."
She's already turning away, closing the file, retreating into professionalism like armor.
"You used to smoke Marlboro Lights," Rodrick says to her back. "The red box. You kept them in my glovebox because your mom would check your purse."
Christine stops. Doesn't turn around. For a moment—just a moment—he thinks he's broken through. Then she looks over her shoulder, and her expression is so genuinely apologetic it makes him want to scream.
"I have never smoked," she says quietly, almost a weary sigh. "I'm sorry. I really am."
The door clicks shut behind her.
Rodrick sits alone on the crinkled paper, his hand throbbing, staring at the space where Regina George used to be. Regina George is gone, and maybe dreams do die.
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𝙉𝙤𝙗𝙤𝙙𝙮 𝙨𝙖𝙞𝙙 𝙞𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙮, 𝙤𝙝, 𝙞𝙩'𝙨 𝙨𝙪𝙘𝙝 𝙖 𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙢𝙚 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙪𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙩.
𝙊𝙝, 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙢𝙚 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙩.
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