The Colours We Give | On hold

| 18 |

" Oh tie up the bow,

Take off your coat and take a look around,

Everything is alright now. "

- Rainbow, Kacey Musgraves

☀

arashi

I STARE AT MY REFLECTION IN THE MIRROR, covered in tissues, toilet paper and bandages. A mummy, that's what I am. Or at least supposed to be. I regret brushing off Nash joking about me dressing up as one, because that's the first thing he's going to see when he comes to pick me up. 

"Is the toilet paper sticking properly?" Dad asks from downstairs. 

"It's good enough!" I shout. Since I had to be careful enough not to strain my hand, the rolls are a little looser in that area. It's still somewhat intact, though. All the glue bottles I finished seem to have paid off. The only problem is the area around my neck. The paper covering it is constantly shifting because of my sling, making it overly itchy.

Dad enters the room, holding two cans of soda. He opens one and gives it to me. "You need any help?"

I check myself. Except for my face and a little blue of my jeans, no other part is visible. "I don't think so."

Convincing Dad to let me go to this party was hard. He countered everything I said with "You've got a fracture," or, "What'll happen if you faint over there?"

Under normal conditions, I would've let it go. Not going to a party did, and does not, bother me. But it's been long since I've gotten drunk, and I'm totally in the mood to feel light headed right now. Especially from something other than a concussion.

I coaxed him, telling that a change of environment would do me good and help me heal faster, adding sentences like I'd stay there for not more than an hour or two. Which isn't much of a compromise because that's been my plan all along. But he ultimately agreed when I told him a friend of mine is going to pick me up and drop me back.

My neck starts tingling again, and I keep the soda can on the bedside table to scratch and easy my irritation. This happens more than once, so I decide I'm going to detach the paper from that part. "On second thoughts, help me cut this part off," I say, rubbing my hand on that area.

"Is it bothering your sling?" Dad asks, gulping a large amount of soda at once.

I shake my head. "The opposite."

He understands and goes to the kitchen to get the scissors, returning fast to cut off the paper delicately. The cold metal gives me goosebumps each time it grazes my skin. Meanwhile, I empty my soda can. "It's done," Dad coos, turning my body towards the mirror. 

I let out a snort. I look like I'm wearing a peach choker. "Quite contemporary for a mummy," I say, touching the toilet paper and then my bare neckline. 

Dad plays along. "That's fine. Just pretend you're a mummified Egyptian stylist of Cleopatra's."

I look at myself once more. It's markedly uncanny, but I don't have time to fix it further. Fortunately, it doesn't look too bad, so I make up my mind to leave it at that.

Just then, the doorbell rings. 

"I think Nash is here," I notify Dad. I don't know the time, but I can tell he's early. Twenty minutes, I discern, when my stare lands on the clock.

"I'll bring him inside. Come down slowly, okay?" he says, leaving the room. I nod and follow carefully. Walking doesn't seem like a problem, almost like I don't have all the layers of tissue on. I'm just a little bit stiff, but since I'm a mummy, it simply betters the act.