Coma (Slowly Editing)

Day Four - Part 1

It was all over the news the next day. About how the team of neurologists in charge of Seymour Harris’ case had diagnosed that the accident had caused him to suffer from irreversible damages to the brainstem. Brain dead, they said. Only the ventilator kept him alive. A huge debate suddenly sprung up about euthanasia and every single TV station and newspaper seemed to have an opinion  on it. Someone reported that his parents were refuting neurologists’ statement and appealing for a team of doctors from Johns Hopkins to fly in and do a second diagnosis. The crowd outside the school got so bad (there were now anti-euthanesia protesters and church people and whatever) that my dad let me stay home.

“Just for the day,” he said, kissing my forehead before he left. I let him, because everything was making me feel small and stupid and completely helpless. Seymour was, once again, nowhere to be found. I texted Sophie and Tara but their replies were slow because their parents, unlike my dad, had sent them to school.

Everyone looks tired, Sophie typed in our group chat. Even the teachers.

Mr. Jacobsen let us sleep during maths, Tara said.

Around mid morning, tired of waiting for their replies and restless from wondering where Seymour was, I got out of bed and decided to take a shower.

“SUMMER TIIIIIIIIMEE AAAND THE LIVIN IS EAAAASY!” I sang, holding my bath scrub like it was a microphone. I let the water from the showerhead sprinkle over me like it was a spot light and I was Ella Fitzgerald singing a pub in 1960s with a crowd of enraptured young men at my feet.

“YOUUUURRR DADDY’S RIIIICCCHHH –”  I batted my eyelashes flirtily at my soap and shampoo bottles. “AND YOUR MA IS GOOOOOOD LOOOOOOOKIN’…SO HUSH LIL BAAABY BA EH EH EH EH BEEEEEE DON’T YOU CRRRRRRRRYYYYYY!” I finished, waving my microphone with a dramatic flourish. Take that, Ella Fitzgerald!

“That is the worst rendition of Summertime I’ve ever heard,” a voice remarked from the other side of the shower curtain.

“AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH! BURGLAR!” I screamed, frantically grabbing the curtain and wrapping it around my naked body. “DAAAAAAAAAAAAAD! DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAD!”

Oh crap! A wave of panic hit me as I remember that Dad had already left. Which meant that I was alone. With a burglar.

“Don’t kill me!” I cried over the sound of water. “I don’t give good responses, I swear!”

I heard a snicker. A snicker was good…right? It meant that he was amused, which meant that he was less likely to put a chainsaw through my torso. Unless it’s the evil, I’m-going-to-carve-your-skin-out kind, then I’m pretty dead.

“Hello? Mr. Burglar?” I called out when there was no sound from him.

“Yes?” the burglar replied.

Wait a minute…I knew that voice! I poked my head out and saw Seymour grinning at me. The bastard! How dare he disappear for the entire morning and then show up in my shower?!I glared at him.“YOU! EXPLAIN YOURSELF!”

“Explain myself?”

“YES! Explain yourself! What are you doing in my bathroom?!”

“I could ask you the same thing!”

Huh? I blinked at him, confused. “I’m in your bathroom?”

“No, dummy.” He rolled his eyes at me. “You’re in your bathroom. What are you even doing home anyway?”

“My dad let me, because…you know…the reporters.”