Trail Of Broken Dreams [ONGOING]

CHAPTER 13: TRAIL OF BROKEN DREAMS

Rebecca

I woke up to the clean and sick smell of hospital disinfectant, invading my nostrils. The room was silent apart from my heavy breathing, the faint drip-drip of the transfusion, the whirring sound from the fan, and the beep beep sound you often hear in hospitals which gives you hope that someone is alive and anxiety if the sound gets loud. That beep beep sound that correlates with the dub lub sound of our heart, if the former goes out of rhythm the latter will too. I listened to it and wish I can make it stop and reverse time to when sound was beside the question and tick-tock was the only rhythm I panic at.

I gradually opened my eyes, squinny in an attempt to sharpen the blurring images right in front of me. I glanced around and took in the deserted, green and white color schemed hospital bedroom, a sun-bleached curtain, a torn magazine on health scattered on the table, and a black and white television setting panicked headline of a health-related issue; my agile and full of life brother now lying helplessly motionless and lifeless in this fucking bed. How long did I sleep off? I shut my eyes, trying to remember what had exactly happened. Then it all hit me like a blow.

I immediately got a glimpse of what happened, and the memories of last night starts to occupy my thoughts. I fell back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling illuminated with a big white fluorescent light. I looked at my brother again, this time with my eyes fully open and tears about to run down; so I try to keep my head forward, kept my eyes upward, and hold back the tears.

I moved closer to him, he was almost unrecognizable from the bandage tied around him. I looked down at his hand, his palm was faced-up and this time it looks familiar. It was his hand, his large bear claw hand that always dwarfed my hand. The same hand that holds me tight when he tells me everything will be alright, the same hand he used to grip and throw that large ball. Without thinking, I gripped his hand and squeezed it. I squeezed it again and again for the third time as though I was expecting a response but he didn't move, it was the first time I have ever done that and he didn't squeeze back. Just then the tears I was holding immediately roll down my cheeks, and a tiny drop of it fell on his hand.

I try hard to recall the last word he said to me. What if those were his last word? What if he won't be able to walk, talk or come out able as before or even remember a thing? My series of questions was interrupted as a devilishly handsome man, with dark brown hair and mesmerizing hazel eyes with a stethoscope around his neck and something that looked like IPad in his hand emerged from the door of the room.

"Good morning miss," He said as he open the curtain exposing me to sunlight, and immediately close it.

Good morning Dr. Walker," I said looking at the name tag on his patch pocket.

"Go to the hallway and wait for a moment," He ordered.

"Hope he is okay," I said as I stepped my feet on the cold white tiles.

"He will be." The doctor said with a convincing yet not a trustworthy smile.

I slide the door leading to the hallway open and it immediately shut afterward. My gape swiveled over the room, looking for a place to sit. A TV was set at one extreme end, why on earth will there be a TV in a hospital? Maybe to serve as a distraction because comfortable shouldn't be a word to use here. Is it the antiseptic smell from the cleaner? or screechy sounds from wheelchairs and people talking in low voices; crying, moaning, hissing, and grunting in pain?

I don't know why I always hated hospitals even though my mom is a nurse probably cause of the bad experience I've encountered there. The worst of it all was when my mom was diagnosed with a condition known as grapefruit-sized fibroid. It feels like a regular day to come to visit but this time instead of seeing her attending to a patient, she was the patient being attended to.