𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐈𝐧 𝐌𝐞 | 𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐭 #𝟏

CHAPTER 4: Porta Potty

Alexandra 

Think of a porta potty: the ninety by forty-five interior, the sweet aroma of wet feet mixed with human waste and humidity, and the fact that no matter who you are, you're bound to feel claustrophobic.

The showers here are basically the exact same thing. It's a known fact that showering in a communal area is the farthest thing from luxurious, but the amount of hair peeking at me from the drain is criminal. I mean, I've taken some pretty bad showers. In my old house, I can't remember a single time the water wasn't deathly cold, and even then, John always threw a fit about the water bill if I was in there for more than four minutes.

The one thing that I do have going for me right now is that instead of having the body heat of twenty different girls filling up the restroom, I have it all to myself. I really did try my best to get a full night of sleep. Isa and I hit it off so well last night. The last thing I need is for her to think I'm an insomniac freak who stays up all night doing everything you should not be doing at 2 a.m.

Which is why I decided to wake up in a puddle of sweat at 3 a.m. Thank you so much, brain. I held my hand over my mouth, trying to muffle the screams that were fighting to come out. I rocked back and forth in bed while trying to count down from fifty-five, but the tightness in my chest, paired with the overwhelming sense of impending doom, was too extreme.

I grabbed my shower catty and the clothes I laid out before last night and tiptoed to the restroom. There were fifteen showers lined up next to each other and mats in front of each one. Out of fear that someone might wake up having to pee and witness me, I stepped into the shower fully clothed and threw them out once I finished undressing. The water shot out of the shower with a burst, and I was surprised to be met with warm water. As I attempt to cover myself in the water coming from the strangely angled shower head, my mind is transported back to my dream.

-

Throughout the whole time I lived with my family, I was never once taken to the hospital, not for yearly checkups, vaccines, or when John broke my left arm. Now, as I lay in the hospital bed, surrounded by big beeping machines, I'm glad that this is my first trip.

A nice lady wearing blue scrubs came in and attached something to my arm. I tried to explain to her that I didn't like needles, but it was no use. Three more people came into the room and held me down as she stuck the needle into my arm and hooked me to an IV bag. My mom always had a lot of needles around, and when she used them, she got sick. I don't want to get sick.

I can't see the TV, but I hear Spongebob's laugh in the background. Why am I here? I try to think back to watching what could have possibly brought me here, but the last thing I remember is Alice in Wonderland; it was the last book I read. I think?

I attempt to lift my head this time but am met with immense pain. I lift my hand and feel that my head is wrapped in some type of cloth. My curls are gone, like someone took a razor to my head. Now I'm even more confused. Did I bump my head? I can feel tears in my eyes, not only from the pain but also from the anxiety sprouting in my stomach. I always have to convince people that I'm not a pain baby, yet I'm always crying.

"Why are you crying? You're okay now." I wipe the tears from my face, caught off guard by the voice. I turn my head to the left and see a boy sitting in one of the bedside chairs. He has a blanket wrapped around him, and his hair is disheveled, like he's been sleeping.

I look down and see that he's carrying two books in his hand. He takes notice of my staring and lifts one up. "I brought our books," he says, resting one of them by my side. The titles reads, Sophie Quire and the Last Storyguard.