Stories of the Reborn

Group therapy is total bullshit.

"It was cold the night I died. I remember the ground feeling like ice beneath me." She laughed bitterly, her eyes fixated on the tile floor beneath her feet, her hair falling in front of her face. "I thought it was the weirdest thing, because everyone I'd ever heard from that died, says that after like fifteen minutes your body goes numb, but I was bleeding out for like two hours, and I swear to god- I felt every damn thing."

She cleared her throat, shoving her hair out of her eyes before glancing up and around the room. This place looked like exactly what you would expect for group therapy. Large room in the back of the hospital that at one point in time probably had a purpose, but now they shove the people in it who didnt exactly stay dead like nature intended. They made sure to throw in a court appointed psychatrist because looking at the people in the room it was obvious no one was there of their own free will.

"I haven't even introuduced myself yet, have I?" She glanced over at the doctor who didnt seem to be paying any real attention, "That's the whole point of group therapy right? Introduce yourself, tell your story, get over your emotional bullshit or whatever. Uh..." she paused, unsure of what to say for a moment before introducing herself, "I'm Callista, I'm twenty-eight, I've died twice, and it has turned me into an fucked up, unemotional,  trash can."

"Cal." The psychatrist looked up from the 'notes' he had been writing with a sigh, "We talked about this. You aren't-"

She interrupted him, "Yeah, yeah. Not a trash can. I'm just- how was it you had worded it?- just, in need of building myself backup from the things I have lost."

She ran her hand through her hair sitting in silence for a few moments before finally speaking up, "Where was I? Oh. Yeah. Dying. So uh, I could feel everything- and lord do I mean everything. Did you know that when you're bleeding out profusly, your blood gets thick, almost like syrup, and- and it coagulates mostly around the wound rather than spreading across the pavement like most people would have you believe? So, at least there was something to keep me somewhat warm while I laid on the pavement for two hours, my car burning a few feet away from me- and people just kept passing by. Most people see a car on fire and they stop, make sure everyone is okay, but two hours..." she sighed, "I only knew it was two hours because I could still see the blinking red numbers on my car dashboard, time just ticking away like everything was normal."

She sighed softly to herself, feeling the burning at her eyes that she had grown to know, the moment when she's just about to cry but her body won't let her. She shoved her jacket sleeves up, running her fingertips along the metal bits that replaced her arm.

"I woke up three weeks later, in some advanced hospital, somewhere in the middle of nowhere. I had absolutely no memory of getting there or even of the past three weeks. It was aparently some kind of rehab center. I was having to learn how to reuse my arm- well, how to use my my new one anyways. This...prothestic that they gave me, that I don't even remember getting."

The psychatrist cleared his throat and stood up, "Well...thank you for sharing Cal, but I think that's all we have time for today. Good job everyone. Get some sleep, eat well, whatever. i'll see you all next week." He waved his hand nonchalantly and almost seemed to vanish out the door. It was like he dreaded being there more than those being forced to be there legally.

The room emptied pretty quickly after that, leaving Cal sitting there in silence, alone. She took a deep, shaky breath before standing, and leaving. Making sure to shut the lights off before closing the door and heading out into the world.