Bite

The Broken Ankle is a Cliche

It was still dark. My smile faded, and I realized it was unbearably hot again. I threw my blanket off, got up, and took slow, tired steps to the kitchen. I found a stray Styrofoam cup, filled it with tap water, and gulped it down. Then I refilled it and drank again. Four more times I did this, till I couldn't take it any more. I felt dissatisfied, and crushed the Styrofoam cup in my hand, then chucked it into the garbage.

I went back into the conference room, and bumped into one of the spinny chairs. I stubbed my foot incredibly hard, tripping over one of the wheeled chair legs.

My ankle snapped and gave out, knocking me to my knees. I let out a groan, trying to bite back a curse.

For a moment I kneeled there, seething in pain, gritting my teeth and trying not to wake the others. I realized—after an intense minute of blinding pain—that wasn't an ordinary moment of clumsiness. I had broken my stupid ankle. No wonder I was breathing with agony, and suddenly limping. My friend broke her toe once, trying to be badass and kicking over a school garbage can. As she cursed and wailed and fell to the ground, I had thought it was funny at the time.

It was not funny now, that I had broken something. I limped slowly back to my makeshift bed, fell in a heap, and pressed my mouth into the cushion. My ankle was throbbing and I was trying not to scream. I had never broken a bone before. My hands started shaking—I was going into shock—seriously? Who breaks their ankle and goes into shock? All of my friends had broken an arm or some other limb, doing sports and reckless tree climbing—and they hadn't really gone into shock. They just screamed a lot.

Just my luck.