Love Lies A' Bleeding

Jumping is Not a Good Choice

I jumped off someone’s bedroom window, which was three floors above the ground, and someone told me it was cool.

Not.

I laid on a hospital bed with a fractured leg, a broken rib, a scar—shaped like Harry Potter’s, whose scar was the only thing I knew about, incidentally, because some nerd who visited me told me so—on my forehead and scratches all over my body due to the supposedly nonexistent branches of a chico tree that made my journey down harder than I thought, prolonging the inevitable, but somehow slowed down my fall.

The nerd was King, by the way. And he had brought me a basket of fruits, so I had forgiven him, partially, for being such an annoying nerd. “Wow! That’s like the scar Harry Potter got on his forehead! You got some cool scar in there, sis!” he had exclaimed.

I had to tell him to shut up, because he had annoyed me that way, in my really strange voice, which had sounded hoarse like I was just making guttural noises instead of trying to make a nice and normal conversation with my twelve-year-old brother. Apparently, nothing between us had ever been normal, so it had been okay, really.

And Molly, she called me five times already since the night of the party when I had skyrocketed to earth with a really loud bang, but she wasn’t able to visit me in person. She told me she was grounded, because of what happened. I felt really sorry for her. But at least she and Martin were still okay.

My doctor had said I could go home in less than a week if I could move my left leg. Though I had been in the hospital for five days already and my left leg hadn’t moved an inch. Maybe it was because every time I had tried to move it, it would hurt so much that I had to stop trying. My nurse had helped me out, but it didn’t change that my whole body hurt.

Also, the scratches on my body started to itch uncontrollably. My nurse had told me once that it was good. That they itched, I mean. Because it indicated that they were healing. I didn’t know how it was supposed to be working that way, but I hated that they itched.

Then, I had to think of my broken ribs, and my heart—now that, I didn’t know how it would heal, it hurt more than anything else—which had received the most fatal of blows. The problem was, my doctor and nurse had been focusing on the wrong parts of my body. They didn’t know a thing about my broken heart.