Fight or Flight

chapter 13: one step two step redfish bluefish

I leave this chapter on a cliff hanger of sorts so sorry! I really know where I want this to go so just stick with me...

As evening rolled around in all its golden sunkissed glory, visiting hours ended. And with many "I'm going to kill him! I am fucking going to kill that son of a bitch"s and a few dry eyed goodbyes they were gone and I was once again alone. Which is less unnerving and more relieving than you might think possible from a girl beaten a few days before. It's strange to think I have been here a day without even thinking about, him. my previous record before our encounter was 3 hours. His crooked smile and empty merciless eyes usually would have gorged their way into my soul and mind by now. Building fiery burrows consisting of leaves sticks and the devils red trident. I don't know if it's the fact that I'm protected in the hospital right now or I have an upcoming meeting with a detective and a sketch artist, but I feel safe. Even though 'safe' is only partially fathomable since I do not think I will ever feel truly safe again, but it is the closest word in our verbally limited english language. If we could expand words to cover a wider range of feelings maybe I would have something more precise than 'safe.'

Before Ray Davis and his bipolar tendencies I would have been able to give the word 'safe' freely but now it sticks to my tongue like sandpaper unwilling to come out. I knew not to walk home alone at night and not to go to the bad sides of town, but I could never really imagine anything bad happening. I suppose most people are like that.

It's a weird part of human nature to blind-sidedly believe nothing bad can happen to you, when we all know deep down that everything can happen. You can get hit by a bus trying to get your toy bus out of the road, you can get accidentally shot by a hunter while playing 'horsie' in the woods with friends. You can be strangled, beaten, asphyxiated, stabbed, hit, drugged, raped, molested even diagnosed but before any of this you think you're superman. By the time you realise you really are mortal, BOOM the train already came down the tracks! By then it's too late. We take life and the general lack of pure unadulterated misfortune for granted, everyone knows they will die. Even if they don't know when or how, somewhere amidst our active neurons we know one day our hearts will stop pumping blood and our lungs won't intake oxygen and rigor mortis will stiffen our limbs until we are locked into position forever. But we just can't contemplate that.

I guess that's a good thing, if it weren't for our well developed skills of ignorance nobody would do anything. There would be no roller coasters or anybody to ride them, junk food would be salade, lean meats and water and we wouldn't step foot out of our own houses.

~*~*~*~*~*

As I sit thinking about the loosely defined morbidness of living, in an inept state of melancholy the nurse walked in. A plastic dinner platter full of unappetizing food placed precariously on one arm as she reached to pull her hand away from the doorknob.

"Hello mrs Conner" she chirped cheerfully, the dark circles under her eyes from over work and stress induced insomnia barely show under layers of powdery concealer. "How are you feeling? Do you need me to get you some more pain medications?"

"Oh no" I say shaking my head to show I don't need any more attention than is already granted. "I'm fine thank you, just a little bit hungry."

"Well then I'm sorry to say this won't do much for you. Don't tell anyone I said this but the food here is terrible, budget cuts and all" I miss being talked to like I haven't just been assaulted, so her candidness is refreshing.

"Ooh that's tough, but we are all feeling it these days" she nods approvingly, her messed up ponytail bobs with her head up and down. The nurse pulls out a small dining tray from the side of my bed and props it in front of me placing the food on it carefully, then continues to speak.

"I know, did you know they cut both art and music from my sons curriculum?! They tell you as a parent you need to open up as many pathways for your children as you can, that means literature, music, culture, art, math and the school systems over dramatised financial deficit isn't making things much easier for us. If they can make room for a new baseball field in the park you think they could make room for my kid to a recorder like I did in school"

"Ahh the recorder, a childs right of passage into a scholarly world that will come up and bite you in the ass" I laugh a little, thinking about her children wonderingly.

"Yeah" she sighs.

"How old are your kids?" I ask inquisitively.

"3, 7 and 14. How about you? Do you have kids?"

"Definitely not that time in my life yet! Oh god, I'm getting old" this time she laughs.

"Oh I know, aren't we all? I'm only 40 but I feel 60!" we both smile, as I take the first bite of my food. That I try not to spit out for the sake of rudeness.

"If you need anything else ms. Conner just call for me. Oh! i forgot, all your vitals seem fine so later if you like, you can take a stroll around the hospital. Theres a sitting room down the hall if you would like to stretch your legs."

"Thanks"

~*~*~*~*~*~*

I open up the boxed up orange juice (in a jole fruit bowl like design) cautiously making sure not to let it splash out while I rip of the tin foil lid. The juice left a tart, dried feeling over my tongue and mouth which I try to swish out with my spit. The squishy orange pulp getting stuck in between my teeth with each forceful gulp. I then attempt at my stiff chicken, stabbing my fork ravenously into the meaty flesh. It is the color of a sickly sheep, pale with a weird greenish hue. I raise the fork slowly to my lips and bite, with a gritted swallow I down the food just as slowly as I bit it. The taste disturbingly resembles a less flavorful pork, I groan out a soft unpleasant moan. But continue to eat to my dismay. If it wasn't for the unrelenting rumbling in my stomach I would have given up along time ago, the voyage to tasty hospital food is a long way away. In a separate millennium generations away, and I count down each minute. Each bite is a separate adventure in on it's own, each new and dangerous. Dangerous not in the sexy or exciting way, but dangerous in the salmonella/ disease ridden way. Each one with it's very own bacteria and viruses.

Normally I would be afraid, but being in such near proximity to a stomach pumping machine I think I'll be ok.

~*~*~*~*~*~*

I push the tray to the side, letting out a large burp. The kind that if I was not alone I would try to blame on someone else, but I am alone so I let it out. Even so I look around awkwardly, making sure nobody saw my ghastly belch.

With a deep inhale I stretch my back and arms, letting out an unattractive scream of sorts. I still smell the strange odor of hospital 'food' wafting in and out of my nostrils with each stale breath. There's a displeasing draft hitting my right arm which only helps spread the smells.

In one somewhat disgusted move I stand up from my bed, gripping onto the plastic armrest for support. I take a step forward but my feet wobble under the weight my legs are not used to anymore, so for a moment or two before I regain my balance I lean onto the bed. 1...2...3... I whisper to myself mechanically and weirdly symbolically. Symbolic of my first steps in my new life, my post-assaulted life.

~*~*~*~*~*~*

Step one was the most difficult of all. Step two wasn't much better. Step three was helping me ease into walking. Step four was maybe even comfortable. Step five made me realise step four wasn't 'comfortable.' Step six was actually comfortable. Step seven seemed normal...well normalish. There is still a kink in my step that I fear will not heal quite as quickly.

~*~*~*~*~*~*

Not exactly sure of where I am headed I wander, my chin held dutifully high full of newly created pride. It could be pure arrogance but I would like to consider my self more self-confident than cocky or egotistical. But that is my opinion.

...step 20....step 21...

I hobble down the long and narrow hallway looking at the antisocial loneliness of other patients. Occasionally I see a rushed smile aimed towards a concerned nurse, but this is of course forced. Looking at the brash faces I almost overlooked the anguished ones

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