Do My Scars Define Me?

The Hospital and The Scar

(For realsies this time.)

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

Ugh. What the heck? Where am I?

I force my eyes open a crack, only to close them again at the brightness of the room. I breath deeply through my nose and nearly cough at the smell.

Antibacterial cleaners and antiseptics.

I'm in a hospital.

Fantastic.

I push open my eyelids again, blinking quickly to adjust my eyes a little better.

I look around and see the typical hospital room. An IV holder above me with what looks to be simple saline in one bag (that isn't connected) and a blood bag that is connected to my arm. There's a heart monitor attached to me as well, the little scanner on my finger to tell them all they need to know. I try to turn my head to see the readings and tell myself that I know what it says when I feel something stiff around my neck. I lift my right hand (the one without anything on it), and feel up to my neck. I'm puzzled when it feels strangely scratchy and soft. There are some spots that are smooth, though most of it is like cloth. The door to my room is open and a nurse strolls right through, a clipboard in her hands. She glances up and does a double take when she realizes I'm awake.

"Oh! Hello. How are you feeling?"

I open my mouth to say confused only to start coughing like a maniac. The nurse goes to the table nearby and pours a glass of water, handing it to me.

"Oh shoot. We were hoping he would be wrong." I look at her, confusion written out in neon and chrome all over my face. She notices and continues. "Well, how much do you remember?" I shrug. I remember watching TV, getting pretty drowsy and falling asleep. Then waking up when he came home and. . . .

And. . . .

Did- Did he. . . ?

I feel the blood drain out of my face and I turn my attention back to the nurse. She looks at me with understanding and nods.

"I guess you remember then. Your father-" She looks at her chart, "Myung-Dae Chio came to your home at 3:10 on December 3rd. Drug screenings show that he was high on a multitude of drugs including methamphetamine, heroine, and cocaine, leading to a dangerously high blood pressure and hallucinations. He attacked you at 3:18 am and was stopped at 3:23. Luckily you live near a police station and patrol officers were nearby at the time. After pushing you hard enough to give you a slight concussion from the force of your head hitting the arm of your couch, he pulled out a butterfly knife and sliced across your throat before police could intervene. He then proceeded to stab the blade into his own shoulder and -" She jerked her head up. "Oh well you probably don't want to hear that part. Anyway, Batman and Robin slipped into your home after you were injured and brought you here after placing a tourniquet on your neck to keep as much blood in you as possible. It was a little spotty, touch and go for awhile, but the surgeons did manage to fix up your neck and throat almost all the way. You will have a scar, of course, and . . . well. . ." I stare at her, willing her to spit it out. "Well, when your father stabbed you, he did it in a certain way to cut through most of your larynx, your vocal cords, without completely severing everything in there. It-" She paused, taking a breath. "It's doubtful you'll ever be able to speak normally again. The head surgeon thinks you should be able to perform some vocal action, but it could be painful. Are you understanding?" I nod. Basically, he's a lucky jerk and was able to slice up just enough to not kill me, rather permanently scar and disfigure me. Greeeeeaaaaaat.

The nurse catches my attention again.

"For now, we're giving you a notepad and pen to write things down on, though the speech therapist will be in later to discuss your options with you. We've got you on some painkillers and numbing agents, but we'll start lessening the doses when the tissue heals some more. For right now, your job is to rest, watch some TV, and eat a little. Don't worry about anything else." I nod again and show a tiny smile. Watch TV and sleep. Doesn't sound like too hard a job. She smiles back and pats my hand. "I'll be back to check on you in a few hours. See you later, Sadie." I flinch. She doesn't notice though; she's already turned toward the door. I pick up the notepad that she left on the little table on wheels next to my bed and pick up the pen. It's a pretty decent pen; good balance and a weird maroon-y ink. I start doodling, getting used to the flow of the pen before I start writing out names I could go by. Hearing one of the last words that came from my mother's mouth on someone else's tongue is just wrong in a way I can't explain.