He's the guy from the party.
"How're you feeling?" He asks casually as the nurse hurries and sets the food onto a nearby table. "You were out for at least three days."
"Who are you?" Is what I replied with.
The boy chuckles awkwardly, hand slipping to rub the nape of his neck. "Oh yeah, about that," he responds. "I'm Hugh Bishop, the one who gave you a concussion."
Hugh Bishop.
A pretty name.
A boyish name.
A pretty-boy name.
A dangerous name.
I fix myself to sit upright. "How did I get here?" I groan.
"Yes, why don't you explain, Bishop," the nurse-lady says in a scolding manner. "And add an apology to that, too."
His blue eyes stare into mine. "I'm truly sorry," he says, eyes drooping like ears on a sad dog. "I really am. I was helping my little brother with baseball, and I was showing him how to hit. I just didn't think I'd hit hard enough to break your window and hit you in the process." He looks at me with a sorry look. "Again, I'm really sorry."
I observe him. I'm confident when reading people's body movements, analyzing their emotions, and detecting lies and truths. I observe him. He seems genuinely apologetic. But yet again, I've encountered many great actors in my life. Actors that are even better than the biggest names in Hollywood.
One being my own reflection.
I won't trust another being again.
I can't trust another being.
But I can learn to.
Since I promised her I will learn.
I hope he'll allow me to learn.
I hope he's not a fake.
I hope he's not like the moon.
But I hope he is like the moon.
So he can help me learn how to change.
"It's okay," I say. I look at the nurse-lady. "She said you brought me here."
"I did," he replies.
I observe him. The nurse-lady returns to my side, attempting to wrap that monstrous thing around my arm again. I jerk my arm away.
"I said no," I plead though sounding aggressive and rude. "Please, it hurts."
"It doesn't hurt, Clara," she assures. "It'll be over in a minute."
"Don't," I say, shaking my head. "No."
"Clara, I have to." She speaks to me as if I'm a scared child. In a way, I am. "I will do it either way, whether you like it or not. If you keep refusing, I'll have someone hold you down."
My body tenses as nightmares blurry my vision.
"No, no, no, no." I shake my head. "Don't hold me down." I think my voice is shaking.
I hear a moment of silence before the nurse begins again. "So, may I take your blood pressure then?" She asks.
I hesitate.
I reluctantly hold my arm out.
It wraps around me.
And tightly he—it—squeezes.
One breath.
Two breath.
Three breath.
Four.
Breathing, breathing, breathing more.
It squeezes tighter.
And tighter.
And tighter.
And tighter.
It hurts.
It hurts.
It hurts.
It hurts.
From the corner of my eye, I see her, now dressed in black and not white.
She's preparing herself.
She knows about the outcome of her decisions for the following days to come.
She knows what the end result will be.
She can foresee everything.
But she can't change anything.
She can't do anything.
If anything, all she can do is to go through with it until it ends.
And not walk the same path I have chosen.
So, she can have a better life.
A happier life.
A fulfilling life.
A lively life.
But she and I know her flawless limbs would be limbs flawed.
Within the following days, innocence would crumble.
Mind would be shattered.
Heart would be pierced.
Soul would be stolen.
Within the following days, she'll leave the person she was, destroy the person she is, and become a person she, herself, should never have been.
She's going to become me.
Tightly the pressure holds me still.
Tightly the waters suffocate my breath.
Tightly these chains imprison me in an inescapable prison.
Tightly and tightly the noose around my neck becomes.
Tightly and tightly.
Tightly I try to hold the nearly-snapping rope of life.
Tightly and tightly I hold onto the rope of life.
Tightly and tightly life holds on to me.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
"All done," the nurse-lady says. "See, it wasn't that bad."
Bad.
I wonder what the definition of bad is.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Because at this point, I no longer see the difference between the good and the bad.
YOU ARE READING
A Prose With No Direction
SpiritualA prose with no direction. A mind with no guidance. A human without a purpose. That is the kind of story I hate to be. That is the kind of story I, unfortunately, am.