Don't Forget Me

Chapter 4

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

My alarm blares right next to my head. I reach out, swatting at it, trying to get that god-awful sound to stop, but my hand keeps cutting straight through the air where my nightstand should be.

"Sweetie." I hear my mom's soft voice from beside me.

Five more minutes, I try to say, but it comes out all garbled, complete nonsense.

She runs her fingers gently down the side of my face. I try to lift my other hand to bat her away, but my arm gets all tangled up in my bedsheets.

"Roseanne, can you hear me?" she asks, her hand still pressed against my face.

"Mom. Five more minutes," I say again, and this time it's audible, but it sounds like my throat is filled with gravel.

And jeez, that alarm. I start to rip free from the sheets to shut it off, but two strong hands clamp down on me, pinning my arms firmly to the bed. I try to open my eyes, but they just won't.

"Get off me!" I grunt, tossing and turning my whole body around the bed. "What are you doing?" My throat is on fire, and I can't breathe. 

I need to get up.

I need to get these hands off me.

"Roseanne, stop!" my dad's voice yells as the grip on my forearms readjusts. His grip, I realize.

"Mr. Park, please," says a woman's voice I don't recognize. Calm, collected. "Roseanne, you need to stop fighting." I can feel her hovering over me now. Right in front of my face. "You're in the hospital. You're okay."

Hospital?

I feel my chest heaving, then everything constricts around my lungs, making me panic more. The sound of my mom's crying fills the room.

I try to open my eyes and this time they respond. But everything on the other side is too bright when I even take a peek and I have to clamp them shut again.

I try again to pull my arms free, but it's no use. I don't have any strength left in me, and soon darkness pulls me back under.

.........

When I come to again, I hear my dad's muffled voice on the phone. I can only pick up every few words... upset... sedated... waiting...

Behind my eyelids my eyes are burning. I spend a few minutes forcing the lids open a sliver at a time. Eventually, the light seems to dim and everything starts coming into focus.

Finally, I register that there's a soft hand resting over mine, familiar, comforting. Mom. I turn my own over, grabbing onto her with as much force as I can muster.

All of a sudden she pops up from where she must have been resting her head on the side of my bed and looks at me like I've never seen her look at me before, tears pouring over her cheeks.

Mom? I try to say, but nothing comes out. I open my mouth to speak again, and she shushes me.

"Don't talk, baby," she whispers in a shaky voice, then turns away from me.

"Louis. Louis! Get the doctor." She looks back at me, taking my hand and holding it up to her mouth. I notice a thin clear tube sticking out of my skin. I follow it up to a bag of clear liquid hanging on a metal rack.

My lungs start to heave again, up and down, as my eyes wander around the room: electrical knobs on white walls, a stainless-steel sink set into a teal countertop, a vinyl recliner tucked into the corner.