Weak

Chapter One

“Sir...sir, would you like a glass of water? Are you alright?” my vision is blurred, but I'm able to make out the figure of a woman leaning above me.

“Yes...yes, I'm fine. What happened?” I say, rubbing my eyes, trying to get a clearer picture.

“You passed out in the rain near your home. An elderly couple saw you from their window and brought you here—to the hospital.” she says.

“So all of this was a dream?”

“What was?”

“All of it. Is he okay?” My heart is beating fast, hoping she says yes.

“I don't understand.”

“Never mind. Could I have that glass of water you were talking about?” She is a nurse. She appears to be middle aged, but she is fairly pretty for her age. I look around, just a normal hospital room. People pass by, some looking into my room. The curtain on side of me was closed. Someone may be on the other side, but I'm unsure. The nurse stands there looking at me me with her big blue eyes, smiling.

“I'll come back to check on you in a little while. I think it's best for you to get some rest.” She walks out the room, closing the door behind her.

She had mentioned that I was found by a couple of old people--probably the Nelsons. They're always looking out, being nosy. But who knows, my neighborhood is full of old people. Mom and I are pretty much the youth of the neighborhood.  Where is Mom?

I look over and see a big red button that could be used to page the nurse. I stare at it for a moment and then turn the other way. If my mom doesn't know that I'm in the hospital, maybe she shouldn't know; at least not now because I don't have the strength to make up a good story to explain why I'm in the hospital in the first place.

I reach over and grab the remote for the ancient television that's mounted on the wall. Flipping through the channels I realize nothing but stupid reality shows are on. I need something to occupy my time; I really don't want to reminisce on what happened earlier. The nurse walks back into the room.

“Are you ready to eat dinner? Today you're going to be having baked chicken with mashed potatoes.” I'm guessing it's around seven o'clock at night.

“Enjoy your meal. If you need anything just press the red button the wall beside you.” she begins to walk out the room.

“Wait. Could I ask you something?”  I think I should question Mom's whereabouts to get an idea of where she might be or if she had even been contacted.

“Yes, of course.” she smiles softly.

“Where is my...” I stalled for a moment--I still have my doubts.

“Where is your what?” she says, giving me a concerned look.

“Um...my fork!” She laughs and comes over to my tray, picking up the fork. “It's right here.”

“Oh! Thank you!”

“You're welcome. Anything else you need to know? Perhaps where your food might be?” She smiles.

“No, I'm fine.”

“Alright then.” She leaves my room, leaving a crack in the door.

After finishing my food, I see what's on the news. Everything seems normal. The weatherman has a bad haircut; Cheryl Stormers, the news reporter, is still blonde; and I'm not on the Most Wanted list. I'm really happy that the cops are not standing outside my door, waiting for me to be discharged. That would be very hard to explain to my mom. Well, I probably would not have to say much anyway—they'd fill her in; however, a big portion of all of this is her fault.

She never listens to me. It's tiring to always be cut off because 'I'm the parent, I know what's best' or 'I was a teenager once'. Even though she's the parent, does not mean that she knows everything. I'm pretty sure if she was told to do the work teenagers do now at school, she wouldn't be able to. Addressing the fact about her once being a teenager, which I think is untrue, she was never a teenager during this time period.

But, that doesn't really matter right now. I need to think of a story. I could possibly tell her that I was practicing for cross country. I could say that while I was practicing, it began to rain and I started to run home. On my way home I must have passed out. That sounds like a really nice story...or not but it may work. She'll be all emotional and stuff, but it's better than telling her that I'd just murdered someone. Wow, I just murdered someone.

At that moment, I break down. I felt like being punished with a death sentence. I hear a knock at my door.

“I'm not decent!” I yell out, trying to gain time to pull myself together.

“And you think that bothers me?” It's my mother.