Oddity

35

I did not like hospitals. They smelt too medicinal, and they were too bright.

I did not like the nurses or the doctors. They always pretended to be so happy and caring. They surely could not care that much about someone they did not know. If one's own family did not care about someone they did know, it was highly unlikely that nurses and doctors cared that much about a stranger.

It was their job, they're obligated to care; or at least pretend.

I did not like all of the sound coming from the hallways of the ER. People were shouting, talking too loud, and crying. The noise and the stress made my aching head hurt even more.

My head was wrapped in scratchy bandages, and the nurse had given me a lot of pain medication. I did not like the way the medication made me feel, but it made my pain more bearable.

The nurse had asked me if it was okay for Mitch to visit me, and I told her no. Seeing him would make me feel worse and want to hit my head again.

Since I was only 16, I could not decline my parents seeing me. I did not speak to them. I did not tell them what I had did. All they knew was that I hit my head. I listened to them talk to the nurse and recommend that I talk to a social worker. They wanted me to go up to the 6th floor.

The psychiatric floor.

I did not want to go to the 6th floor. The 6th floor was for people with mental problems, and people that wanted to end their life.

I had promised Mitch that I would never end my own life, but I wanted to break that promise. But if I was on the 6th floor, I would not be able to do so.

Dad told that I was lucky that Zack was in stable condition. He did not acknowledge my own injuries, and it made me angry.

But I still refused to speak to him.

Eventually, the social worker came into my hospital room. She asked me a lot of questions. A lot of questions about how I felt normally. What I thought about each of my family members. What I thought about Mitch. What I thought about myself. And even what I thought about life.

I did not like answering these questions. The social worker simply nodded at each response and wrote notes on her paper and clipboard.

"So, Scott...have you ever heard of asperger's syndrome?" she inquired, leaning forward slightly in her chair.

I shook my head.

"Well, basically, it's a developmental disorder that makes it very hard to interact with other people. The disorder is apart of the autism spectrum. Does what I said make sense to you?" she asked. It was similar to the way that Jennifer used to talk to me, and I did not like it.

"Is that what is wrong with me? Do I have to go to the 6th floor because of it?"

She shook her head. "No no no, there's nothing wrong with you. As of now, the only reason I would send you to the 6th floor would be if you feel suicidal or homicidal."

"I do."