Intersecting Lines

Chapter 2

                It's been three weeks since the new guy came here. He only got his right leg on cast and his neck on brace but there he is being frequently visited by doctors and being given different types of fluid.

One thing I realized about this guy is that he doesn't care about anything. He always reads. Sometimes he scribbles on his moleskin notebook for hours. Other times, he listens to his iPod and zones out completely. His bed is the one near the window, so that's where he always settles his gaze. Maybe we were on the same page about having to stay in this suffocating room. Maybe, just like me he also wanted to escape whatever it is that he's going through. Just like me and everyone else in this ward. He wanted to get better.

Today they will remove the cast on my left arm and replace it with just bandage. So maybe I'll be able to move a little freely. It should have been done a week ago but the doctor said that to ensure that all the bones in my left arm is intact, we need to wait for another week. Both of my arms are not that damaged. It's both of my legs that got badly injured from the accident. Anyway, that's the reason why my plan to die a week ago got cancelled again.

                I slowly opened my eyes and I saw a beautiful morning sky. Much like the sky that I had the day the car crash happened. My body doesn't ache that much and I'm thankful that somehow I could ride the wheelchair. I'm tired of just lying in my bed thinking when the time for me to die will come. And now, I thought to myself, is that time to die. There will be a little get together for patients and guardians on the fifth floor cafeteria. It's for St. Patrick's Day so people would be gathering on the fifth floor. I figured that this would be the right time to execute my "leave the earth completely" ceremony so nobody would know. Since they're all busy and all the patients inside here in the orthopedic ward are either there on the fifth floor or here motionless in their bed. No one could stop me then. It will be held at 12 midnight. Today is actually the 16th of March. And tomorrow is St. Patrick's Day. I adjust myself in my bed and I look at the clock by the door. It says that it's 11:45 am. I count the hours inside my head and I think of what I am suppose to do to kill time until it is 12 midnight. I still have around 12 or 13 hours to think about my death and how I'm going to do it. But for now, like most days five weeks ago, I pretend. I pretend to be okay. I pretend that I'm not having thoughts of dying and killing myself in front of my mom.

Mom woke up from her sleep beside me and she immediately, like a robot, rose up from the chair and started making sandwich.

"How was your sleep?" She asked me. I didn't sleep. I listened to you muffled cries until you fell asleep from your tiredness and stress from yesterday. I watched you sleeping, mom. I saw how reddish you cheeks are from crying too much and I saw how you held my hand as you slept. Like you were looking for something to hold on to and that something is my hand. That is how my sleep went. And it's been like that for 5 weeks now. I could've told her this. But I didn't. I know I shouldn't. She doesn't want me to see her weak because she's holding everything in.

"It was fine." I tell her instead. This isn't how our conversations went before. She didn't ask me obvious questions and I didn't suppress all my honest opinions with one line replies. We talked about everything under the sun before the accident happened. We talked about what's the next fashion trend, who's going to win the x-factor grand finals, why the sea is salty or what happens when a star dies. We talked about a lot of stuff in the kitchen while she prepares food and I watch videos of figure skating performances or in the car while she drives me to my practice, or when we're waiting for dad to go home from the office. We used to actually talk, before I started to rebel.

"Dr. Mills and I will talk in a few minutes. Do you want to come?" She puts the lettuce on top of the tuna spread.

"No. I don't want to come." I'll be dead in few too. That's why there's no point for me to come. I've had enough and I'm ending it once and for all. Mom placed the plate in my desk and I picked up one of the sandwiches and I took a small bite at the edge of the bread. A little while later, a woman in white approached her and she gave me a nod. Dr. Mills must've called her to her clinic. I took a sip of the orange juice mom made together with the sandwich. I wonder what they'll be talking about. It's obviously something about me but is it good news or bad. I know I shouldn't care. The news won't change my mind of committing suicide. Even if Dr. Mills tell me that I'm getting a lot better and I don't need a whole nine months to heal, I know for myself that everything is over and even if I recover, I need to give figure skating up. And I'd rather be dead than do it.