seven, six, ten

1

the monitor repeated like a broken record. over and over again. i looked down at my body in the hospital bed, stitches and dried blood and metal rods supporting my life. i did this to myself. and it didnt even kill me. i didnt want it to kill me. i just wanted to feel like it did. multiple nurses passed my room in a span of 10 minutes, holding beds and children and clipboards and pens. i wanted to get out of here. i didnt want to stay in this bed by that window surrounded my this equipment and cords and needles and blood. maybe i should have killed myself. maybe i wouldn't be here right now. maybe i shouldn't have done it at all.
somebody walked into the room. i didnt talk to him. i didnt talk to anyone.
i could see all the amber alerts. missing posters. police station calls. the tall female nurse had left her newspaper on the seat beside my bed.
i wanted to leave.
i was going to leave.
i couldn't stay there, not like this.
                                         {}

after a few weeks, the healing process was near complete. i had several missed calls from my aunt who had not once bothered to visit me.
i didnt answer her. i had escaped the hospital quietly around 7, i was healed enough to 'meet someone outside' . i was exhausted and sick, but i cared more about getting out there then i did about getting better. and i had never cared about anything.