expected. You rolled down a cliff in your car. Our bodies can only sustain so much.” Her retort isn’t snarky, but there is a small undercurrent of disapproval in her tone. It’s always there. She doesn’t outright say she thinks I’m a psycho, but it’s there in her eyes, the way she regards me, and the way she speaks to me. I despise that, too.
Just the mention of rolling in the car turns my stomach. I drop my gaze down to the bed, taking in my legs that are braced and casted and every other inch of my body that’s bandaged. I’m told my right leg only needs to be casted for the next two weeks before it can come off. I sustained a hairline fracture in my tibia, which should heal quickly since I’m not active. Though, the doctor did advise, I might live the rest of my life with at least some form of discomfort from the fracture. Now, my left leg is a different story. Somehow during the accident, I shattered my kneecap and cracked the top portion of my hip. I also have a clean break in my ankle, which the doctor believes was sustained while I was escaping the mangled vehicle. The entire left side of my leg is casted and braced with metal bars for my hip bone.
I’ve yet to see the scars on my body, but I know they’re there. I can feel them, the heat that radiates from the wound. A nurse comes in a few times a day to clean the dressing around my abdomen, and I still haven’t found the strength to look yet. I know once I see it, I won’t be able to unsee it, and that’s what scares me. When I was younger, I didn’t care much about looks, but as I got older, that changed. It pains me to admit that sometimes I feel like I’d be nothing without my looks. I may not be the most beautiful woman out there, but I do know my assets. And if someone were to take away those assets, I don’t feel like any part of me left is worthwhile. I have nothing else to offer.
“If you’re feeling up to it, I’d like to show you around the facility today, so you can get better acquainted with everyone here. But first, Stephanie here will help you get cleaned up.” She motions to the female nurse standing beside her. I blow out a little sigh of relief that at least a man won’t be the one helping me clean myself. The nurse who usually redresses my wounds is an older woman in her late forties. She’s nice but doesn’t say much, so I never truly feel self-conscious around her. As I stare at this other nurse, I wait for that feeling to creep in, but surprisingly, it doesn’t. I’m already at rock bottom, so I fear any lower, and there will be no chance of finding my way back up.
“Stephanie, page us when you’re both ready.”
With that, Dr. Aster steps out of room, and the burly male nurse, who I’ve seen more times than I’d like, stays behind, but he doesn’t make any move to help. I guess he’s just here as backup, in case I decide to truly act like a crazy person.
Stephanie helps me up from the bed, being extra careful of my wounds. Though she may not look it, she’s a lot stronger than I anticipated. With tan skin and hair that’s darker than even mine, she’s a petite little thing, but obviously looks can be deceiving, because as we make our way to the bathroom, she practically carries me all the way there, taking the brunt of my weight. The metal bars attached to my leg clang with each movement, and I flinch at the noise.
She lowers me onto a hospital grade stool. It’s one of those stools elderly people tend to use. She helps me strip out of one of the many plain gowns I’ve been in since I got here.
“I know this is uncomfortable, but I promise, I’ll try to be quick.”
“Thanks,” I mumble. “I’m sure having to wash someone isn’t all unicorns and rainbows for you either.”
She pauses as she gets the warm water and washcloth ready. “You’re not like the other patients.”
I can’t help but scoff. “Yeah, that’s because I don’t belong here.”
Her lips twist. “On second thought, maybe you are. I hear that at least thirty times a day.”
I roll my