Amaranthine

Chapter Two

© Copyright 2011 

All work is property of Leah Crichton, any duplication or reproduction of all or part of the work without explicit permission by the author is illegal.

Cognition: (kog-nish-en)

the mental processes of perception, memory, judgment, and reasoning, as contrasted with emotional and volitional processes.

That which comes to be known, as through perception, reasoning, or intuition; knowledge.

I couldn’t even almost-die right.

I read once that when your body teeters on the brink of death, you're supposed to have some sort of other worldly, paranormal experience. There was nothing. No bright lights, no tunnels, no angels. Instead, I was suspended in time, captive to dreams I can hardly recall.

The smell woke me. Not my mother's voice urging me back, not the constant beeping of life sustaining equipment or the rolling of the wheelchairs in the hallways, but the smell. The pungent mix of bleach and chemicals burned my nostrils as it swept a massive wave of nausea into my core. I couldn't puke because a tube was inserted in my throat.

I moved with a speed that was surprising for someone who was so immobile. In hindsight, it was probably the panic setting in as I brought my hands to my mouth without much thought and yanked at the plastic base with all the force I could muster.  One of the machines next to my bed began to scream. The noise was bad enough, but the pain I'd just inflicted on myself was inconceivable. Tears speared my eyes at the same time a second machine indicated that my pulse had skyrocketed.

I spoke, but the voice that came out didn't belong to me. It was strained, hoarse and raspy. “Mom? Mom?”

A woman who was very obviously not my mother raced into the room like she training for a sprint. She came to a dramatic halt at my bedside, green eyes wide and mouth agape. Her gaze danced from the screaming device to me and back again as waves of chestnut hair fell loosely over her stethoscope. Once she determined I hadn’t suddenly died on her, her hand fluttered to her heart and she exhaled. “You're alright.”

I didn't mean to scare her. “Sorry.” I nodded toward the noisemaker she just turned off and the plastic tube that made me see stars. “I shouldn't have done that. I freaked out.”

She shook her head, adjusting the buttons. “No,” she agreed, “you shouldn't have. How are you feeling?”

I rooted around in my brain to find an answer for her. I was shocked and frightened. Of what? I was about to tell her I didn't know how I was feeling when a lurid recollection flooded my mind. The screaming tires, the metal crunching, the sickening aroma of rust and blood. 

Where was my family?

“I want to see my mom,” I demanded. 

“Your mom is fine, sweetie,” she said. “She’s just down the hall getting a coffee. I’m going to have the doctor come in and examine you and then we can see if you’re up for a visit.” She placed a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll be right back, okay? My name’s Amanda. You just push this button on the side of the bed if you need anything at all. I’m going to page Doctor Stephenson.”

“I just want my mom.”

“I’ll find Mom, too. I’ll be right back.” With those words, she departed.

My head was splitting open, torn right through the middle, and my leg throbbed like it was the proud owner of its own pulse. I decided to use the opportunity to examine my injuries in more detail and pulled the sheet away to investigate. A monster of a cast began at my hip and ended at my ankle.