Hundred Words

Thirteen

Thirteen

I'm happy to have a room-well, a portion of a room- with a window. I never really noticed the sun. I would walk all around on the ground below, and never think to look up, and say "Why, what an amazing thing the sun is."

I also have the ability to walk, sit in the lounge chairs scattered around the hospital, go to the little vegan-vegetarian "cafe" on the second level, walk around the gift shop filled with flowers and stuffed animals for new babies and kids who are sick, and lay in bed. The hospital is like school; you don't want to be here, but you have to stay.

I watched the news the other day. There, the same Barbie woman that I had mocked started talking to me, about me. I was mortified, to say the least. I had faced the whole hospital issue just fine unto itself, knowing that i would come out of this okay. I had been told this over and over and over again. I knew I had no severe nerve damage, only a little bit that would occasionally throb for a few minutes. That I could handle, and the pain would probably stop in anywhere from two to four weeks. I knew when I would be getting out, in three days.

I didn't know what a big deal I would be for the media. At the bottom of the news cast, the would post tweets that people were sending out after the news. probably half were for me, and it made me strangely happy and upset at the same time.

They also showed pictures and videos of my attacker, shooter, whatever word you choose to use. He was in court, but he didn't look scared, or angry, or sorry for what he had done. He just smiled this painted-on sort of expression, and it made me sick. Then, interviews with my neighbors the Stevens. They talked about how they were oh-so sorry for me, how I was a lovely child and they cared about me very much, and how it could have been them. It was infuriating, and they were talking to the new reporter as if I was dead. They had never stepped foot in our house before, and likewise for me. They never made an effort to meet me, didn't say "Hi" if both of our families happened to be in our backyards or on the beach at the same time.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, feeling like a sick puppy that everyone was rushing toward to help. It makes you feel helpless and lifeless.

I turned off the tv, deciding to go for a walk. The entire hospital was boring, but outside of the harsh, white, tan, and gray walls and curtains, it was better that staying in my room, sun and all.

I pressed on of the buttons on my bed, calling in a nurse. In less than a minute, Marcy's head popped into the doorway. I gave a quick smile. "Anything wrong, honey?" she asked. I shook my head.

"No, but can I go downstairs?" As soon as the words left my mouth, she started gathering things together. From my fleeting days at the hospital, I knew that the belt she was holding in her manicured hand (That I was convinced was a karate belt of some sort to start) was made so that if I fell, any nearby person could grab on and I wouldn't get hurt. Since my arm and shoulder on my right side were weak still from the bullet, if I fell, I couldn't really catch myself.

"Of course. But if you get tired, or feel out of energy, just don't feel good, you tell someone, and then you're comin' up." I nodded, having been told this many times before. It was a strangely comforting routine from the news, and people's opinions and me and my attacker. It was intrusive, but being able to walk around freely, as I pleased, and to be able to feel like I finally had some control over my current situation put a smile on my face.

But, I couldn't help but wonder what that man had been thinking, and if he still remembered that girl cutting the tomatoes.