Morphine

fifteen : typical esmund behaviour

I've been home for three weeks now. It's been approximately two months since Christmas holidays started.

I doubt Milan will be doing the whole "starting the holidays three days early" plan any more.

At the hospital, I was taught how to walk again. Milan paraded me around the hospital in a wheel chair for a couple of days, trying to make me cheerful again. It didn't work. Then, I was forced to leave the chair and hop around. The pain moved like liquid. It started at my right ankle and then expanded towards my thigh. I tried to suppress it as much as possible, but it felt like my muscles were pulling and pushing and protruding all at once.

They had to use tranquillizers after that.

I didn't want to give up. I tried and made friends with the pain. We were platonic. The pain would laugh at my frailty, stick its tongue out. But eventually I got used to it. Don't think about it, I kept telling myself. Just let it be. Go on with your life. Pain is like a child. You tell it to not do something, and it does exactly that. So, ignore is what I did. And it worked. I began to work with the heat shooting through most of my body parts.

Then they helped me talk. A speech therapist would come in four times a week and help me to speak better. I assumed it was working because Mum and Milan stopped looking so confused whenever I spoke.

Once three weeks were up, the doctor signed me off.

Now, in the dining room, I think about it all. What a pitiful, vulnerable state I was in. I vow to myself to never ever make myself feel or be that way.

Everyone is ignoring that I almost died. Everyone is pretending like everything is fine. Typical Esmund behaviour.

Milan keeps glancing up at me every two minutes to check if I'm fainting or whatnot. It irks me beyond belief.

"Stop it." I snap at him.

He quickly looks back down at his plate and mumbles a half-arsed, "Sorry,"

"Would you like some water, honey?" Mum asks, noticing my empty glass and successfully stopping me from getting more annoyed at Milan.

"Yes, I would." I tell her with a smile.

I try to pretend and ignore too. After all, I am an Esmund.

Pushing back my chair, I grab my empty glass to fill it with some water. Milan immediately stands up and says, "I'll get some."

I hop on my left foot and reach over to my pair of aluminium crutches resting beside the refrigerator. I tell Milan, "My legs are injured. Not amputated."

Everyone's attention is on me as I make my way all the way across the small dining space to the sink in the kitchen. It takes a while. The glass evidently shakes in my hand with the movement. It might slip and fall as both my hands are already holding the crutches.

Why is everything so far? I assume it's because my dad has all the money in the world and the house has to look lavish and spacious at all times. Like his heart. Spacious and apparently empty.

It feels like a year by the time I reach the kitchen. My feet protest. I let them.

I blow out a breath of relief when I make it. The tapping of the crutches against the wooden floor was starting to sound too loud. Quickly I fill the glass and make my journey back to the dining table.

I am almost there. Just six more steps. I can do this.

The glass shivers in my hand so vigorously that most of the water that I filled is lying in drops behind me. There's barely any water left now. Just for a tiny moment, I lose control of my fingers and the glass slips between them and crashes against the floor. The sound echoes inside my head. I still hold onto my crutches and decide to abandon the glass.