Audrey Indigo the Writer

Three Weeks, Zero Words Per Minute

     I stare at the blank, white ceiling, and it stares back at me. The grey curtains are closed, so it's dark.

     Slowly, I try sitting up. Pain hits my entire body, and slowly fades. I see my mom asleep in one of the cheap, blue chairs with wooden armrests. Behind her there are flowers galore. Lilies, peonies, roses, anything from anyone who heard.

     The light brown door is closed. I want it to remain that way. I don't want anyone else to see me.

     My mom wakes up. She sees me and is amazed.

     "You're awake," she says.

     "It's not the first time," I respond.

     I move into a more comfortable position.

     "Are you okay? Do you need me to get the doctor?" She bombards me with questions.

     "Mom, I'm fine!" I say, annoyed.

     She starts to get up to examine my wound. Turning away, I realize how hard that simple task is. Everything seems to be hard when you lose your right arm.

     Mom sees that I don't want her to get closer, and moves over to the curtains.

    "It's so dark in here," she says to herself.

     The curtains open and sunlight shines brilliantly in. Squinting until my eyes adjust, I gaze out at the empty parking lot, at the busy road, and the Barnes and Noble across the street. I see everything from high up on the 17th story of the hospital.

     The door opens to the left of me and I whip my head around. The doctor stands there. He wears dark blue scrubs, he holds a clipboard, and he has the most fake smile I've ever seen.

     I turn clockwise to shield my arm, well, stub, from him. I don't like him examining me like I'm some kind of animal in a zoo.

     "Audrey, good to see you!" He says, shining his pearl-white teeth.

     I mumble a hello. Mom looked like she was going to say something, but decided against it.

     "How are you doing?" He asks me as he walks over to the right side of my bed.

     "I'm good." I respond out of habit.

     He touches my stub and I flinch. He looks at my face as if trying to find any hint of pain.

     As he removes my gauze, I struggle to distract myself. First I look to the diagonal door that leads to my bathroom. I notice the lines that sit on the door that show how it was once just wood. Then I look to the window light casting shadows across the floor. Before I know it, he's done.

     "Well, you're looking good. It's actually amazing that in three weeks you could have healed so well," He tells me.

     "Thank you?" I say my brows furrowed in confusion.

     He stands up from his kneeling position and turns to Mom.

     "It's really phenomenal that your daughter healed so cleanly and so fast," he tells her, "And I actually think that she could go home as soon as tomorrow."

     My mom's face lights up at the words. I try to sink down and never be seen again. I don't want to go home. I don't want people to see me, to stare. I don't want to be different. I just want to stay here forever.