A Change of Heart {h.s.}

4

 

 

I've been in recovery now for what seems like an eternity. Apart from physical therapy and being hauled back and forth to the doctor every other minute, my bed has been my prison, and my parents are the guards. I swear my mom has to be sitting by my door every minute of every day, waiting for the slightest sound of movement so she can barge in and tell me to stay put, and that she will get whatever I need.

But all of that has changed, because today's the day both of my parents go back to work.

Mom practically runs into my room after frantically rushing to get ready while simultaneously making sure I've got everything I could ever possibly need next to my bed; water, snacks, medicine, magazines, more water, a family photo of us at the beach when I was seven for some reason. When she spills some of her coffee on my floor, however, that's when she finally stops to take a breath.

"Mom," I say as she stands still with her back towards me. "Will you relax? You're going to give yourself a heart attack if you keep this up."

She turns around with an annoyed look as I give her a smirk.

"Funny," she says, sarcastically.

"Seriously, go. I'll be fine. If I need help, I'll just walk to the hospital or something."

"Harry Styles," she warns. "You will not get out of that b--"

"Mom," I chuckle. "I'm just messing with you. Go before you get in trouble for being late."

She sighs and walks over to me with a warm smile before kissing me on my forehead and reminding me for the millionth time to call her if I need anything at all. After she closes my bedroom door, I wait patiently for the sound of the garage door opening and closing before I slowly, but excitedly stand up. My body feels sore and my feet feel weak as I stand up from being in that damn bed for so long. I kept telling her that my physical therapist wants me to move around a bit at home, but she won't let me. In her eyes, I'm this fragile porcelain shell that will shatter at the slightest movement, my broken pieces unable to be put back together as they spill across the floor.

The first thing I do is turn on the shower. It's been weeks since I've been in my bathroom alone which, as I'm sure you already know, is about as uncomfortable as one can possibly get. Knowing that only a severely thin curtain separates your naked body from your parents is the stuff of nightmares, and something I never, ever hope to relive.

I don't bother looking at my scar before I step in, the warmth of the water surrounding me like a blanket. I stand still for probably too long, letting the water and my first wave of relaxation consume me until the water begins to get cold. When I step out, I wrap a towel around my waist, moving to the kitchen and throwing chicken nuggets in the toaster oven.

I lean against the counter and listen to the house shift while I wait, its creeks and thuds making me feel calm and somehow less alone. It's not everyday that I get to be by myself in the house. Actually, it never happens. The amount of privacy I have in this house has always been as thin as that shower curtain. I can't watch TV, or play piano, or even sneeze without someone hovering over me, making sure I don't keel over. It's nice to have parents who care, but Jesus, let me breathe.

The timer beeps and I take my chicken nuggets off the scalding hot tray, squeezing a mountain of ketchup on my plate before going back to my room, turning on TV and mindlessly flipping through channels.

Man, I could get used to this.

The sound of a garbage truck outside wakes me up from a deep sleep. I don't even know how it happened. One second I was watching a woman tackle a man to the ground after finding out he slept with her sister, and the next thing I know, the banging of hollow trash cans outside pulls me away from my dreams. I lazily and painfully sit up, rubbing my eyes to adjust to the afternoon light. I reach for my phone, my eyes straining while trying to put the screen into focus.