Survivors

Chapter 10: Jada

Chapter 10: Jada

          I can’t feel my legs and my arms are really numb. I guess that’s a good thing, because that also means that I can’t feel if there’s any pain on my body. My head is still swirling from the medication the medics have been feeding me.

          I guess a signal has just been sent out from one of the machines, because it doesn’t feel like barely five minutes before there is a team of medics coming into my room to examine me. I recognize one of the medics, the one that called me “Sweetheart” and injected me with something to make me sleep, but are the other two the ones who helped him with my operation?

          “Hey there, Jada,” the medic says as he pulls on a pair latex gloves. He’s smiling a lot. When I don’t. Acknowledge him, continues, “I don’t think I introduced myself the last time. I’m Doctor Ken, I am on of the lead doctors here. I know your friend, Melissa. She’s one of the best medics I know.”

          I’m still silent as Dr. Ken and his assistants begin to remove the bandages from me. To my surprise, there’s no blood left on my body. The bandages come off almost white. The only discoloration comes from the medicine, which smells sort of minty.

          “I’m impressed,” the doctor goes on as runs his fingers across my leg, “You cuts have seemingly healed over night. Do you feel any pain anywhere along your body?”

          I shake my head and softly, almost inaudibly, say no.

          Dr. Ken looks confused. “Do you feel my fingers along your leg?”

          “Yes,” I say a little louder. Dr. Ken looks over to the other two medics, who look just as confounded as he does. “Is there something wrong?”

          It’s as if they ignore me. They are huddled together, whispering, looking at images on the clipboard, discussing me. Occasionally, one of them would look towards my direction or cup their hand across their mouth, as if to block what they’re saying.

          Maybe it’s because no one seems to be acknowledging that I’m even here anymore, but I’m highly impatient now. Right before I’m about to shout at them, Dr. Ken turns to look at me. He pulls out a flashlight and asks me to stare forward as he examines my eyes. He asks me a series of questions like what I remember, what medications I take, if I knew my family’s medical history, even if my diet consisted of anything other than the dining hall. I answer all of them truthfully, extremely confused as to what the relevance of all these questions is based on.

          Dr. Ken asks if it would be alright to draw some blood from me. I give him my consent after he promises that it would be a very tiny bit of blood. I shut my eyes as the needle pinches my arm and I feel my blood leaving my veins. When I open my eyes, there’s a patch on my arm and the doctor is holding a three inch syringe that’s about a quarter inch thick filled with my blood. He then redirects his attention to me.

          “Sweetheart, I mean Jada,” he fumbles the words, “you suffered a severe injury that takes weeks to fully recover from.”

          “So I’ve been unconscious for weeks,” I state, but Dr. Ken shakes his head.

          “More like just two days,” he says. Now I join into their confused looks. Two days? I have been out for two days? Only two days?

          “It would seem that your friend’s blood might be a cause of that,” Dr. Ken states, “You have a very rare blood type here, so he came in demanding that we use his since he had the nearest match.”