“Here’s a cup honey” the nurse says joyfully as she arrives back in my hospital room as if she were in a ballroom dress. She looks nothing close to dazzling. I wonder if she thinks her high pitched voice can actually succeed in cheering people up. Especially in this place. “Mm Kay” I mumble slowly as she hands me a puke color, floral print cup. “The restroom is right there sweetie, Ill be back shortly!” Watching the middle aged Barbie point towards the restroom and leave with her fake smile and hyper wave, I reluctantly shuffle into the bathroom. Who was the color blind idiot who picked the colors of the walls in this place? The stupid cup and the wallpaper above the toilet match! Any way, time for the moment of truth…..not really. “sweetie pie, are you all right?” “Yeah…..-sigh-…. I’m fine” I say dully as I finish washing my hands. God, does she ever shut up?! “Are you done with the cup? Honey, you can give it to me if you’ve finished” Opening the door and finding Barbie practically plastered to it, I hand her my now warm cup full of fresh, yellow liquid and shut the door to make her leave before she can call me another gross name like “Honey Buns”. Oh, gees. Why did they put me in a room with a mirror? The left side of my face is a splotchy color of purple, blue and green…I look like a molting, half human swamp monster. It doesn’t really hurt or sting now but it looks like it should. Just a dull and soft pulse mummers under the bruises on my cheek and temple. It feels as if my blood has gotten thicker and is slowly seeping through my veins up into my face. Did they give me the wrong blood type earlier? As I ponder this, I reach up cautiously and touch my swollen cheek. I feel my blood pulse harder from the pressure. Like a warm, throbbing disease. If they had, I probably would have been dead by now. Like I was supposed to be 3 hours ago. I trace my finger tips up the bridge of my nose and on to the small plane of my forehead. Seven stitches keep a gash closed above my right brow. Like I care about a little gash. But I know it will be a scar. A reminder of this night and how I am a failure….even at my own death. “Gavin dear, are you in here?” two knocks echo through the door into the bathroom like a huge sound wave.
“Yes, ill be out in a minute” I say barely audible. My mother has good ears though. Hearing my mothers voice is at least better than hearing the over stimulated nurse’s annoying squeaks. Emerging from the nauseatingly decorated bathroom, I catch my mother just getting off the phone. I suppose it was my older sister, Amelia, who lives out of state. she is my only sibling. I am not close to her at all. We never really talked when I was younger, when she was still at the house…if you would call it that. She barely ever came around and if she was home she was always arguing with our father. She drove me to school sometimes if I was late but the only conversations we exchanged on the way to school was her asking me questions I usually answered with one word. Then the rest of the ride was listening to a shitty radio station, while at the same time fidgeting and feeling the empty space dwell between our awkward relationship. I have come to the best conclusion I could make about my sister, she disliked my father and I remind her of him. My mother talks to her constantly and tells me how successful she is, my replies are the same: oh, that’s cool.(not interested). “No, no Dear he is fine. I will call you in a bit.” she hangs up and turns to face me. My mother has always been the sensitive, gentle kind of mother. Not perfect but she knows when she makes her mistakes. She’s easy to brush things off but this will be carried with her, I know. She follows me with her eyes like a wounded soul as I move to sit awkwardly on the stiff, white sheeted bed. I stare at the ground as the worst sound settles between me and my mother….Silence. As I glance out the window into the hall I catch a blur of my moms upper body. Her hair is protruding from everywhere, her work clothes are ruffled and her high cheek bones are blemished from tears. The pain runs up and through my body like a burning flash to settle in my chest. Not the outside injuries kind of pain. The heart kind that eats at your throat and devours your voice. I sit here and bathe in guilt and remorse. She doesn’t deserve this. “Hello Dear….” she stands together as best she can and claps her hands tightly together over her chest until her knuckles turn a dead pale. I look up into her tired, distressed eyes and my lips cant help but twitch at the sight of her, I look at her hands instead. She walks across the room as if she is stepping in the presence of a land mine. Steadily she lowers her self to sit by me on the bed. I count three seconds. She lifts her relaxed hand and moves it to hover above my own that rests on my thigh but then she pulls it back onto her lap. I glance up at her face. It is staring straight forward and her water filled eyes move slightly as she thinks or tries to calm herself. A droplet falls from her chin on to her grey suit pants. I watch it absorb the wetness to form a small circle of darker grey. I watch it spread until my eyes have to blink the dryness away. I prepare to speak by trying to swallow the pain as silently as I can…..I hope the tortured sound my throat made was only audible to my ears, like sometimes when your chewing gum and know one can hear the squish, squishing sound it makes, except you. “I’m well….they stitched me up.” I force my head up to meet her glazed eyes and take in the sight of her tear stained face again. Slightly touching the stitches, counting them one by one to show her. She looks so tired and dragged out. The sagging color around her green eyes are dark. Those eyes always reminded me of late spring when things are just…..okay, now I see the paleness to them that resemble dying leaves. she is so warn. “I….am Sorry….” I say softly…..pathetically. I cannot look at her exhausted face and talk above a whisper. I have brought too much on her. A weak smile barely curls upon her lips. She doesn’t deserve a kid like me. “I’m just glad your still here, I don’t understand.” she gasps out, shocking the silent space within these walls. I reach over and hug her. No hesitation. I hug her so tightly. I crush her into me. My fragile and broken mother. It is the first hug I have given her in 9 months, almost a year. My shoulder suddenly becomes wet and I think a stitch has opened and I am bleeding again. I don’t care I hug my mother. She is shivering and hunched in my arms and I realize she is crying and sobbing quietly. Her tears soak through the thermal the nurse had given me to change in to after I was cleaned. It is cold and wet against my skin. It feels nice. The wetness spreads to my collarbone, shoulder gashes and scrapes. Slowly it soothes the throbbing. I feel like I am being cleansed of my wounds and pains and thoughts until one thought reveals its self: It is my turn to take care of the one who has protected me, who has fed me, and some how held me when my father past away. This person who still some how loves me and clings to me now. I have shattered her. With this resolution I will protect her. I will. I will. I will. I repeat this to her in my mind until my mind and body form an at ease presence. Slowly and willingly my head leaves me and I sense my body sink into me, through my mother, the bed, the floor. I am floating heavily into an emptiness called sleep. When I wake, I will
I wonder if she thinks her high pitched voice can actually succeed in cheering people up. Especially in this place.
“Mm Kay” I mumble slowly as she hands me a puke color, floral print cup.
“The restroom is right there sweetie, Ill be back shortly!”
Watching the middle aged Barbie point towards the restroom and leave with her fake smile and hyper wave, I reluctantly shuffle into the bathroom. Who was the color blind idiot who picked the colors of the walls in this place? The stupid cup and the wallpaper above the toilet match! Any way, time for the moment of truth…..not really.
“sweetie pie, are you all right?”
“Yeah…..-sigh-…. I’m fine” I say dully as I finish washing my hands. God, does she ever shut up?!
“Are you done with the cup? Honey, you can give it to me if you’ve finished”
Opening the door and finding Barbie practically plastered to it, I hand her my now warm cup full of fresh, yellow liquid and shut the door to make her leave before she can call me another gross name like “Honey Buns”.
Oh, gees. Why did they put me in a room with a mirror? The left side of my face is a splotchy color of purple, blue and green…I look like a molting, half human swamp monster. It doesn’t really hurt or sting now but it looks like it should. Just a dull and soft pulse mummers under the bruises on my cheek and temple. It feels as if my blood has gotten thicker and is slowly seeping through my veins up into my face. Did they give me the wrong blood type earlier? As I ponder this, I reach up cautiously and touch my swollen cheek. I feel my blood pulse harder from the pressure. Like a warm, throbbing disease. If they had, I probably would have been dead by now. Like I was supposed to be 3 hours ago. I trace my finger tips up the bridge of my nose and on to the small plane of my forehead. Seven stitches keep a gash closed above my right brow. Like I care about a little gash. But I know it will be a scar. A reminder of this night and how I am a failure….even at my own death.
“Gavin dear, are you in here?” two knocks echo through the door into the bathroom like a huge sound wave.
“Yes, ill be out in a minute” I say barely audible. My mother has good ears though. Hearing my mothers voice is at least better than hearing the over stimulated nurse’s annoying squeaks.
Emerging from the nauseatingly decorated bathroom, I catch my mother just getting off the phone. I suppose it was my older sister, Amelia, who lives out of state. she is my only sibling. I am not close to her at all. We never really talked when I was younger, when she was still at the house…if you would call it that. She barely ever came around and if she was home she was always arguing with our father. She drove me to school sometimes if I was late but the only conversations we exchanged on the way to school was her asking me questions I usually answered with one word. Then the rest of the ride was listening to a shitty radio station, while at the same time fidgeting and feeling the empty space dwell between our awkward relationship. I have come to the best conclusion I could make about my sister, she disliked my father and I remind her of him. My mother talks to her constantly and tells me how successful she is, my replies are the same: oh, that’s cool.(not interested).
“No, no Dear he is fine. I will call you in a bit.” she hangs up and turns to face me. My mother has always been the sensitive, gentle kind of mother. Not perfect but she knows when she makes her mistakes. She’s easy to brush things off but this will be carried with her, I know. She follows me with her eyes like a wounded soul as I move to sit awkwardly on the stiff, white sheeted bed. I stare at the ground as the worst sound settles between me and my mother….Silence. As I glance out the window into the hall I catch a blur of my moms upper body. Her hair is protruding from everywhere, her work clothes are ruffled and her high cheek bones are blemished from tears. The pain runs up and through my body like a burning flash to settle in my chest. Not the outside injuries kind of pain. The heart kind that eats at your throat and devours your voice. I sit here and bathe in guilt and remorse. She doesn’t deserve this.
“Hello Dear….” she stands together as best she can and claps her hands tightly together over her chest until her knuckles turn a dead pale.
I look up into her tired, distressed eyes and my lips cant help but twitch at the sight of her, I look at her hands instead. She walks across the room as if she is stepping in the presence of a land mine. Steadily she lowers her self to sit by me on the bed. I count three seconds. She lifts her relaxed hand and moves it to hover above my own that rests on my thigh but then she pulls it back onto her lap. I glance up at her face. It is staring straight forward and her water filled eyes move slightly as she thinks or tries to calm herself. A droplet falls from her chin on to her grey suit pants. I watch it absorb the wetness to form a small circle of darker grey. I watch it spread until my eyes have to blink the dryness away. I prepare to speak by trying to swallow the pain as silently as I can…..I hope the tortured sound my throat made was only audible to my ears, like sometimes when your chewing gum and know one can hear the squish, squishing sound it makes, except you.
“I’m well….they stitched me up.” I force my head up to meet her glazed eyes and take in the sight of her tear stained face again. Slightly touching the stitches, counting them one by one to show her. She looks so tired and dragged out. The sagging color around her green eyes are dark. Those eyes always reminded me of late spring when things are just…..okay, now I see the paleness to them that resemble dying leaves. she is so warn.
“I….am Sorry….” I say softly…..pathetically. I cannot look at her exhausted face and talk above a whisper. I have brought too much on her. A weak smile barely curls upon her lips. She doesn’t deserve a kid like me.
“I’m just glad your still here, I don’t understand.” she gasps out, shocking the silent space within these walls. I reach over and hug her. No hesitation. I hug her so tightly. I crush her into me. My fragile and broken mother. It is the first hug I have given her in 9 months, almost a year. My shoulder suddenly becomes wet and I think a stitch has opened and I am bleeding again. I don’t care I hug my mother. She is shivering and hunched in my arms and I realize she is crying and sobbing quietly. Her tears soak through the thermal the nurse had given me to change in to after I was cleaned. It is cold and wet against my skin. It feels nice. The wetness spreads to my collarbone, shoulder gashes and scrapes. Slowly it soothes the throbbing.
I feel like I am being cleansed of my wounds and pains and thoughts until one thought reveals its self: It is my turn to take care of the one who has protected me, who has fed me, and some how held me when my father past away. This person who still some how loves me and clings to me now. I have shattered her. With this resolution I will protect her. I will. I will. I will. I repeat this to her in my mind until my mind and body form an at ease presence. Slowly and willingly my head leaves me and I sense my body sink into me, through my mother, the bed, the floor. I am floating heavily into an emptiness called sleep. When I wake, I will