Flor De Muerto

Saige

I woke up in a sterile hospital room, the walls a dull beige, the air heavy with the scent of antiseptic. A bouquet of flowers sat beside me, tied with balloons that bobbed gently. As my eyes adjusted to the harsh light, I spotted my mom in the corner, worry etched on her face.

"Mom?" My voice felt small, and I wondered how long I'd been out.

"Mija, oh my goodness—" She rushed to me, pulling me into a hug. I let her this time, the memory of our fight fading into a haze. I could barely recall what had happened.

"Let me get the doctor. You have stitches, Mija. Stitches!" She pulled back, her eyes wide with concern. I took a deep breath and looked down at my left thigh. Bandages covered smaller cuts, but a thick line of stitches ran from my knee to my upper thigh. I felt sick.

This was the first time I'd ever intentionally harmed myself. I couldn't explain what had compelled me—it had felt like an impulse that took over; one I hadn't been able to control.

A soft knock interrupted my thoughts as the doctor entered. "Hey, Saige, how are you feeling?"

"Fine," I lied. Panic bubbled up inside me, and I was terrified to move or answer questions. I hadn't prepared for this.

"That's... good." He cleared his throat, shifting his weight. "Well, we have a psych consult that would like to speak with you... privately." He gestured to an older woman waiting by the door, clipboard in hand. My mom nodded, her expression a mix of reassurance and worry.

"I don't need that—I'm fine. It was just an accident."

"Mija, it's okay. Just tell her what happened. We'll go home soon, right?" She turned to the doctor, her voice steady.

He shifted uncomfortably again. "The sooner we have this consultation, the sooner we can let you go." I nodded, desperate to escape.

What was I going to say? There was no good excuse for stabbing myself with scissors. I felt like I was unraveling, and I didn't want her to know.

Mary pulled a chair closer to my bedside and extended her hand. "My name is Mary. What's yours?"

"Shouldn't you already know?"

"I suppose I do, but this is our formal introduction. You'll be seeing a lot of me." Her hand remained outstretched.

"Saige." I waved her hand away. "I don't do handshakes. I don't know where your hands have been."

"Okay. Saige, what's your favorite color?"

"What?" I blinked, confused.

"Your favorite color... green, blue, pink?"

"What does this have to do with anything?"

"I'm just trying to make you feel comfortable. My favorite color is purple—I like the darker shades. My prom dress was purple." She smiled, but I couldn't respond.

"Can you just ask the serious questions? I want to go home." I felt like she was the one who needed a consultation.

"Oh, alright then. Saige, how are you feeling right now? What's your pain level on a scale of one to ten?" She clicked her pen and focused on me.

"Well, the cuts aren't too painful, but the stitches make me nervous to move my leg."

"No, I mean your mental state. How are you feeling inside?" She leaned in, her expression earnest.

"I'm not feeling anything—just really uncomfortable." I shifted away from her gaze.

"What brings you here today?"