*Poem--
Speak
Speak with the special tongue that is bestowed upon you,
It will help when you are feeling blue
It will give others a clue,
To what is going on in your head,
To what you fear and dread,
It is what gives us life and emotion
It can be a sick love potion,
Speak with all your might,
Even when it is dark as night,
You give others hope when you tell your story,
Life, love, laughter;
Those are only part of your glory*
***
I woke to a monitor. Beeep. Beeeep. Beeep. It said. I groan. I knew that the nurse must have been in here. Why I didn't wake sooner? I have no idea.
Screeeech went the door. I snap my head in the direction the noise came from. The nurse walked stiffly into the room, towards the monitor, as if I weren't even in the room. I just held my arm out, knowing she'd need too take a blood sample.
Normally, I would freak at the sight of needles, but ever since I've been diagnosed, they've had to give me multiple shots and take various samples, so I'm used to them now.
The nurse takes my arm without a word and stabs it. I wince slightly but it doesn't hurt as much as it used to. I just accept the little pain I get from the stabbings.
"Anything unusual occur in the past two days?" The nurse asks me. Of course, she's asking for anything physically that has happened out of the usual. And, of course, the answer is no.
I shake my head I response.
When I first got here, I vowed to myself that I'd make it as difficult as possible for them, as much as I could without, affecting anything to make my condition anymore worse than it is. So, in reality, I have rarely talked to them unless it isn't a question that I can answer with yes or no.
The nurse nods at my response and briskly walks out. I let out my sigh of relief that she is gone. She's one of my most unliked nurses in my book.
I hear murmuring outside my door from my bed. I knew that they were talking about me. They mostly do when they leave. I never know if it's good or bad though.
Disregarding them, I turn to the window, well, as far as I could from my uncomfortable position on the bed. It is raining and the droplets are running down the window, as if the window was crying.
I turn back and lay down in the bed and stare at the ceiling. The white ceiling that matched the white walls that went with the white bedspread that added some brightness to the white counters and white tiled floors.
I am sick of this place. Sick of not being able to go outside. Sick of my legs. Sick of the stabbings. Sick of the nurses. Sick of not knowing what's going on. Sick of the feeling of freedom when Conor walked in. Sick of all the gossip that's going around the school about me. Sick of having nothing to do. Sick of being me. I hate this place. I hate everything.
I lay back and close my eyes to imagine what it would be like to be someone else. To be someone who was loved, cared for. Someone who had a life outside of these walls.
The door squeaks open again. I pretend to be asleep.
"From the quick testing," the deep, controlled voice of the doctor says, "her condition won't get any worse."
"That's great to hear!" My stepmothers voice seems to screech, making my ears bleed. I hate her. She's the reason I'm in this mess in the first place. Why I can hardly remember what happened before I woke up in this death hole.
"But we cannot calculate the days she will live. The accident must have affected her brain and it'll, eventually, wear out over time."
"Oh no!" Her squealing voice tears through my skull. "Will she be able to go back to school and perhaps catch up on her education while she can?"
Oh please no. I don't want to go back there. Not with all the prissies who are all obsessed with boys and hair and nails and their faces covered in clown goo. Not to mention that I'll be the talk of the school with,
'Ooh! Kythie's in a wheel chair!'
'Didn't you hear what happened? She can't walk anymore.'
'Oh poor Kythie! It must be a pain with that thing!'
'Oh Kythie! How hard is it in that wheelchair? And what about junior prom?'
And other crap like that. I'd rather gag myself with a spoon than go to prom.
"Yes, she should be able to, but—"
'No. Nononononononooooo....'
"—it may be more difficult for her to remember things from class. I suggest she write everything down."
Why did she have to ask? Just to torture me some more? She already basically killed me.
"Oh wonderful! I'm glad Kythie will be able to continue school, even with her disability."
Oh put a sock in it old hag!
I lay there with my eyes closed, so wanting to sock them both in the jaw. I am already miserable enough. Now she's going to make me go to school?!
I hear them leave and I let out the breath I apparently had been holding in for who knows how long.
"Yes, she's asleep though. I'm so glad you're here. And she'll love those!" I hear my muffled stepmothers voice tell someone.
Oh great. Who else is go to come in here and humiliated?
I hear light footsteps so it can't be my unuseful father.
"Hey, Kythie. I don't know if you can hear me but I brought some flowers to brighten up your room. I brought an assortment of lavender, lilac, rose, and lily. I hope you don't mind if I just sit in here for a little bit," Conor's voice comes from next to me as I hear a heavy glass being set on the table.
"Lavender," I whisper.
"What?"
"Lavender is my favorite."
"I know," he mutters, mostly to himself.
I peal open my eyes, hoping I don't look to disheveled. I'm curious as to how he knows these things about me, like my favorite types of flowers, my name, and who knows what else.
I see him sitting there with his hair wet from the rain, giving me a small, slightly crooked smile.
"Hey. Thanks for the flowers. You didn't have too," I tell him.
"Yeah, But I wanted to and I got my mom some new roses."
"That's very kind of you. And there's also something I need to tell you."
"What's that?"
"Well, my stepmother and the doctor were just in here," I start.
"Yeah, I saw them as I came in."
"The doctor had said my condition won't he any worse..."
"That's good."
"But—" he frowns. "They don't know how long I'll live because apparently whatever caused this damaged something in my head."
"Oh."
"And they're making me go back to school."
"I'm sorry to hear that. Do you know what school?"
"Probably the one that's closest to here. I went to it before, I think, and I didn't particularly like it."
"Yeah, it sucks there."
I give him a questioning look.
"I go there. All the girls are all snotty. I guess that's why I enjoy talking to you."
"Oh... thank you. I guess then I'll know someone...or remember someone."
"Do you not remember what happened before... all this?"
"I only remember fragments. Like my mom's smile or situations that I can't grasp who is who."
"Has anyone told you what happened?"
"No. I don't have the slightest idea what happened. Do you know?"
He grimaces. "Well..."
"So you do! Please tell me! Don't be like the rest of them. Please!" I beg him. I've been dying to know what happened.
"We knew each other. And you just got picked up from my house and... well... on your way home, your stepmom ended up spiraling out of control. She claims to have tried to avoid something but I have my suspicions that she was under some influence. She's always had this drinking problem and I offered to take you home, since your stepmom won't let you get a car but she said she'd come get you."
"Oh. Were we close? Like good friends or anything?"
"Yeah. You were... or still are, since technically nothing came between us, my girlfriend."