Death and Disinfectant

Mother Dearest

Air isn't the same when it's tainted by the ugly mix of death and disinfectant. It's a struggle to allow myself to breath- but I do it anyway, the war of body and mind is no stranger to me now and it is no time to lose myself in pity, it's no time to give up. I still want to relax but my nerves are on high alert, it's probably some side effect. It's probably permanent. Every aching muscle seems so much more real than before. All pain; though it isn't more painful, it's more apparent. My eyes feel like those glass showers, when the steam rises up and it gets real foggy. But even with the foggy glass of my vision, the killer headache I seem to have magically been possessed by, and the awful disillusioning effect the painkillers in my system are having on me; I can still tell where I am. And that's just goddamn cruel.

I'm no stranger to hospitals. As a little kid I used to get myself in all kinds of trouble. By the time I was seven I'd broken my right arm three times, sprained both ankles twice and broken my wrists once each. When I was little it was an adventure to me to go to the hospital. It was like getting a little certificate, except instead of getting it framed on the fridge- I got a lecture from my parents and up to two weeks off school. It was a game to me.

The game changed when I was nine. My mom was diagnosed with dementia. The hospital wasn't an adventure, it was like a second home. But not a cool one, I never got a good rest at night or a warm meal in the morning. I just got to sit and watch my mom go insane. I didn't fully understand what was going on. How could you expect a little nine year old to understand when their mommy doesn't recognise them anymore? How could you expect me to understand when my own mother tried to drown me in a fit of rage or depression, because of whatever war flashback she was having that week.

My mom was never even in a war.

I stopped visiting the hospital about a year later. My dad sent her to Eichenhouse- some mental institution, he visited her there sometimes; he made me stay home though, said it wasn't safe for a little boy. But I had Scott, and Ms Mcall to keep me company when my dad couldn't. They weren't much, they weren't even really enough... but they were all I had. They were the constant in my life. And life was progressively getting harder, I understood more and more what was happening to my mother and I started to get panic attacks, real, real bad anxiety type stuff. They sent me to a shrink, put me on pills, which made me even worse. I got my wish though, my dad was with me the entire way through. He was so terrified of losing me- like my mother. Day after day I think everyone kind of forgot about her- they were too preoccupied with me. It ate me up inside. She started getting worse, really bad. I blamed myself- still do, if I'm being honest. But no one noticed, no one cared anymore. Not even my Dad. Until she got into those sickly stages- they moved her back to the hospital and we followed, I was again reunited with my second home. She died two days before her birthday. In the same hospital bed she had first been committed to. She'd not gone peacefully and for the last week before her death she had fits every night, there was so much screaming and crying... She talked about the most horrendous things, like werewolves. She talked about a lot of scary things, but werewolves were the most common. I think they were what scared her the most. She told me- when my dad wasn't around- stories about them ripping the throats out of people. She made up the most detailed little stories. They scared me so much I started staying away from her unless Dad could be with me.

The night of her death I was staying at Scott's house.

I should've been there, I should've stayed with her. But she died alone just so I could have one selfish night of fun with my friend.

Hospitals have never been an adventure to me since then.

I had actually forgotten most of that- blocked it all out of my consciousness, I guess becoming a werewolf heals stress memory regression too.

I can't believe Scott took me here honestly, I mean he couldn't of known about the whole werewolf thing but seriously it's gonna be a bitch to explain the magically healing body scars to the nurses. The mysterious disappearing bite. It's all a little too much to deal with- so I find that my cue to leave. I get up with too much ease for a sick person. I pull myself out of that off-white hospital bed with far too much jump in my step for someone who should be on the brink of death. And I walk out of the hospital- not knowing exactly where I'm headed, just walking as far as my new super legs will take me, with a little too much calmness for my current situation.