Open Heart {Under Revision}

Chapter 2- Niche

'Why am I starting from this? Well, I can't just dive right into the heart of matter. I know you're interested about San Diego but what about things that happened after? Maybe we both can get answers for what I did. You can learn about my mother and other women who can to save me when it was too late. Yeah, you'd like that.'

——o——

July, Ten Years Ago...

I hated Oxnard.

Maybe because it was close to San Diego or because the nurses were very infuriating by shoving strawberry and lima beans every hour in my face as if those forlorn fruits would reduce the bitter aftertaste of painkillers. As if they'd help me walk again.

Despite almost-always lingering in anesthetic induced sleep, I vaguely recalled that three days had passed since a shaken EM trauma team managed to patch my fragmented legs into a useless mesh of meat and bones. But no method of modern surgery could assure that I'd regain their function again...until and unless someone took a calculated risk and cauterized my existence.

Every time I glanced at my bandaged lump of limbs, it made me gag. Hence, rather I stared out of window to a stupidly calm and quiet place. After everything—the silence was surreal.

My mind was drilled with blankness and no amount of cooing from doctors got me to spiel even two words. The only scene I held was...of me trying to drop a handful of earth to an empty tomb and later, inviting my own. So much red.

Sometime later, my mother's blonde head peeked inside the room and her petite, polished and professional frame trotted in. My best friends, the heart-useless-monitor and clueless-I.V drip needed some changes today and mother always stayed when they rolled off the bandages from my legs.

"Charlotte?" my mother's voice was doubtful, unlike her usual self. For a moment, I wanted to believe that aliens had kidnapped and dumped me in some parallel universe which had an empathetic version of my mother.

I ignored her as wind brushed my hairless head. The doctors had excised a better chunk of my long length during operation and now, tiny-ugly spikes jutted everywhere. Even a horntoad was prettier than me. Why was that nice to imagine?

"Charlotte. How are you feeling?" mother questioned as she sat down.

"The same. Usual. Crippled."

"You aren't crippled, Charlotte!" Her voice grew with annoyance. "Stop calling yourself that. Your surgery was just three days ago. It'll be a while since you can mitigate your legs."

"My legs?" I snickered woozily. "You mean this organic mess?"

Her fiery-green eyes became hard. "Your nerve-conduction is unaffected. The doctors have scheduled three phases of reconstructive surgeries which will—"

"I don't want to stay here." I injected. "It's close to San Diego."

She sighed. "We will not stay here then. Where do you want to go?"

"Can we go to Raleigh?" hope flared in me. "I like your house."

"No." Hope died in me.

Mother placed a hesitant hand over mine, unsure of the gesture. "We will move to Santa Monica for your next surgery." she glanced at my legs and closed her eyes. "Then you will go to Manchester."

My stomach soured in protest. "Manchester! Dad's lands? Are you—" I prevented from saying 'mad' because mother would get angry. After being whipped enough, I knew better than to tease an asp's tail.