The Chance

13 || Pretty Boy

Why'd You Only Call Me When You're High (Slowed) - Artic Monkeys

𓆩♡𓆪
Evie

I've always heard about the five stages of grief.

Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.

I learned about it in eighth grade health class.

What nobody told me was that it doesn't always go in that order.

Sure I've been angry, sure I've denied my injury plenty of times these past weeks, but the misery I sit in every night is almost unbearable.

And the series of emotions are so strong I find myself awake at two in the morning with tears in my eyes. It feels like someone is squeezing the air out of my lungs, my breaths ragged as cries bubble in my throat.

Tonight's grief is centered around frustration more than anything else. Since my surgery I've gone to three PT sessions, each time I go I swear I see less and less improvement.

I want to get back onto my feet, to walk without assistance, to not need a goddamn brace on my leg.

But healing requires patience and I'm thin on that. My physical therapist told me she knows how eager I am to get better, but to not rush through this process.

I understand taking my time, but it's a painfully slow process and I'm not sure how much longer I can go without a big improvement. I've read stories of people being back on their feet in no time and vice versa, and I prayed for a speedy recovery.

So far it's been anything but that.

The reminder only makes me cry harder. I try hard not to make a sound and muffle my cries into my pillow, the thought of someone hearing me only makes me more anxious.

I don't want anybody to know how emotionally weak I am, how vulnerable I can be if you find me at the wrong time, how embarrassing it would be to confide in someone and tell them, "Hi! I'm Evie. A twenty year old woman who cries herself to sleep every night!"

It's pathetic.

I'm pathetic.

This injury has taken a toll on me mentally, more than I imagined, and I'm just sick and tired of it all. It's exhausting to cry every night, but I still find a way.

How I even have the tears left to do so is beyond me.

And it's the same continuous cycle each night. I'll feel my lowest for a while, then gain a second wind and be alright.

As of right now I've gained said second wind. My tears have dried underneath my eyes but I wipe them to make sure I'm over it.

A sudden thirst dwells in my dry throat, air flowing smoother than it was ten minutes ago. Sitting up in this ginormous bed I was given without an option to say no, I compose myself.

The room is dark, the air a content temperature, my eyes falling on a certain frame against the wall. I don't try to study what I'm looking at, barely able to make it out in the dark.

Sliding my legs off the right edge of the bed I'm reminded why I stick to this side. A certain inebriated man once told me it was less of a risk to my knee if it ever rolled off the bed.

I grab my crutches against the nightstand and hobble as quietly as I can towards the door. As I advance towards the kitchen I slow hearing someone ahead of me.

Who the hell could be up at this hour?

It doesn't take long for me to get an answer, and I feel my soul leave my body when I realize it's Alex, and quite frankly, he's the last person I want to see right now.