The Life I'm Running From

23\ Everyone Needs to Stop Gawking

"A week? I've been out a week?"

That was my reaction three days ago when I found out I had been unconscious for a full seven days. Surprisingly, it wasn't the biggest shock of the day. I also found out I was at the Avengers Headquarters in Upstate New York. And that my friend, my Physics tutor, the dorky-in-a-cute-sort-of-way Peter Parker was Spider-Man. It was a rollercoaster day.

Since then, I've been confined to my bed. Because, to them, it takes longer than a week and a few days to heal broken ribs, a concussion, and a broken leg. But jokes on them, I'm a demigod.

It was weird eating ambrosia again. I always kept it on me—even in the past months with the band on my wrist—so I only had to get my bag back from the doctor. The Ziploc bag was flattened, but unopened. Thank goodness. I didn't want to have to explain why someone died after eating the food in my bag.

Ambrosia, paired with a healthy dose of water, sped up my recovery time tenfold. Yesterday Dr. Kyzelle, upon checking on me, had informed me with a confused expression that my concussion was gone. The magic of being a demigod. My ribs no longer burned when I moved, and I was almost positive that the bones in my leg had fixed themselves.

That was a pro of having my powers back. Quick healing. One small consolation amidst my new depressing reality.

But one thing at a time. I was not keeping this heavy cast on my leg after I had healed. So that's how I ended up on the floor beside my bed, jamming a knife between my cast and my leg in an attempt to break it.

"Come on," I muttered, the muscles in my arms straining. "What's this made out of? Vibranium?"

There was a knock at the door. I didn't bother to ask who it was, because I already knew. He checked on me every afternoon.

"Hey. How's your day b—" Peter's voice stopped abruptly. Though I didn't look up, I knew he was surveying the scene—me on the ground, the bandages that had been around my ribs discarded to the side, a knife sawing at my cast. "What are you doing?"

I shifted my position to give me more leverage. "Try to get this cast off." I grunted. This was harder than it should be.

"What?" Peter looked at a loss of what to do. It was kind of cute. "You need to heal," he pressed.

I scrunched up my face as I wedged the knife deeper in my cast. The blade nicked my skin. "I am healed. I don't need a cast anymore."

Suddenly my knife broke through. It sliced down the side of the cast, revealing my pale leg beneath. Peter looked stunned. He really should know by now that I was stronger than I looked.

I used the knife to slice off the rest of my cast, and prepared myself to stand up. Peter quickly stepped close to me. He raised his arms, as if to catch me when I stumbled. Except I didn't. I stood up straight and strong. Testing my leg, I shifted weight from one to the other. Painless.

"I told you I had healed," I said smugly.

Dr. Kyzelle walked into the room with her clipboard. She looked from me, to Peter, to my broken cast on the ground, and back to me. Her mouth gaped. "What—McKinnley—how—you're not—McKinnley!"

To prove that I indeed was okay, I walked over to Dr. Kyzelle. She stared at my leg in shock as I patted her on the shoulder. "Nice to see you, doc. But I don't need you anymore. I'm all good now."

Neither Peter nor Dr. Kyzelle knew what to say. Finally, Dr. Kyzelle stammered something like "talk to Tony" and left. Peter was left staring apprehensively at me, like he was waiting for me to fall over in pain.