Bittersweet Moments

38 | Butter

38 | Butter

Brain, you are off schedule again.

I was awake, and it had only been one night. One night. Was that supposed to be healthy? That after all the emotional trauma and physical abuse, my body chose to be conscious the next day? Damn it, this was unfair.

According to the stories, movies and shows, someone wouldn't wake up after that for maybe a week at least? Then here I was, wide awake and alert. I didn't feel tired. But I knew my body needed sleep to recover. Now, go back to sleep, Ollie.

But not before I scanned my surroundings. I knew it was still a day after that incident because the digital clock said so. 8:45 am. Too early. I wasn't in the mood for this crap so brain, you better get sleepy.

As expected, I was in a hospital room. Alone. I mean, where else – the cemetery? Contrary though to what I knew, it wasn't all white. The bed and the sheets were gray. The hospital gown was greenish. The walls were lime. And thank God, the windows were shut.

The room was nearly bare. Nightstand, desk, couch and bed – that was it. A simple room. Honestly, I thought that the only hospital I'll ever be admitted in, in my whole life, would just be the mental hospital.

But surprise, surprise I was here.

I sat up, knowing it would take time for me to doze off. What did my brain want anyway? Coffee? I just sat there aimlessly, as if nothing had happened. My limbs only felt numb, like what it felt after a long workout. No pain.

Or was there anesthesia?

I rolled my shoulders, craned my neck and stretched my bandaged arms – I could still feel them. So maybe no anesthesia. My feet were fine, but faintly sore.

But my mouth – chocolate balls, my mouth. It felt drier than a desert. I wasn't quite hungry, even though I had so little for dinner last night. Fortunately, I found a glass of water ready for me by the nightstand. By the time I finished it, I was still parched.

"Wa . . . ter," I tried testing my speech. It was okay; I didn't forget how to talk or anything.

I rubbed my palms on my lap. This hospital gown felt oddly loose, also comfy. Then, I looked up in surprise at the door opening.

The woman who entered looked just as surprised to see me. Doctor – my doctor – judging by the white garments. She stepped inside the room, quietly closing the door behind her.

"Good morning, Oliver," she greeted rather warily, "I'm Doctor Nash. How are you feeling?"

"Fine, I guess," I moved my lower body a little, "But I still feel like staying in this bed. My brain can't sleep. Do you have any pills, or – eh – anything you can inject me?"

Her eyebrows rose, and she replied, "I think there might be some in the cabinet." She moved to the desk where, there were cupboards underneath. Crouching, she scoured the inside for the sleeping pills.

"Um . . ." I scratched my head, "Waking up right after – is that normal? Shouldn't I be in coma or something?"

Doctor Nash started to explain, "Usually a patient would be asleep for more than a day, after what happened to you. But your case isn't unheard of. You can sleep afterwards and the body will continue its recuperating process."

She took a plastic box and stood up, adjusting her glasses. Then, the doctor went over to the side of my bed. "Think of it as your own way of dealing with this stress. Everyone has different strategies based on their mentalities."