All Tables Turned

Chapter 2: Intrusive Intrest

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I hiss vehemently as the doctor meticulously wraps my scars and bruises in soft, white bandages. I anxiously watch the blood from my wounds invade the delicate cotton, turning it from pure white into a misleadingly lovely shade of pink. I could feel my restless sweat accumulate underneath my skin, and my spine shatter under the uneasiness of the room.

My mom sat next to us, her leg quivering violently in warranted anxiety as her eyes fixate on my scattered scars. My body sinks deeper into my chair, as I practically could feel the weighty atmosphere of her stress pushing against my tattered body. Her hair was chaotic, reflecting the number of weeks she's gone without taking time to care for herself. All she's been doing is making sure her kids are okay.

Making sure I'm okay.

As my stomach churned with overwhelming guilt, the doctor finishes applying the final bandaid. Heaving an exasperated sigh, he pulls back and trudges towards his desk. His eyes were surrounded by murky rings of restlessness and heavy, charcoal bags. As he sits down at his desk, his defeated, grey hair collapses over his face, masking any trace of apprehension.

I stare down at my bandaged arm, and acknowledge that my mother isn't the only adult concerned about my well-being.

The doctor robotically scribbles on a piece of paper, assumably my status report, and enervatedly turns to face my mother, who is still glaring at the wounds on my arm.

"Subcutaneous bruises. Again - nothing to worry about, Ms. Patience." the doctor said with an irate look in his eye. My mother is visibly unfazed. She's repeatedly heard the same report for the past few months now. At this point - her breaking point - she won't settle for idle physical descriptions anymore.

"That's wonderful, Dr. Patel. But I was wondering if there was any...mental medication you could prescribe us? My son's been having trouble sleeping and his grades have decreased dramatically. I believe that these injuries - and their source - are having a sizable effect on his concentration."

At the word "son", I could feel my temple flare in aggravation as my insecurities invade my thoughts from the far corners of my scalp. She's well aware of how I feel about her addressing me that way, and yet she actively chose to --

Stop it. This isn't about you. Your mother practically is fighting a mental war with herself to keep her sanity. She doesn't need another conflict.

My mental consol mitigates my thoughts, and I find the strength to focus on the conversation unraveling before me. The doctor simply looks at her bitterly, visibly irritated by her question.

"I'm not a psychiatrist, ma'am. You'd have to bring him to a professional for that. However, what I can tell you is that no other child has visited me as often as your son does. It's quite abnormal, to say the least."

The doctor stops abruptly and slowly turns to stare at me, his eyebrows raised with intrusive interest. Time suddenly freezes as our eyes fixate on each others'. My heart stops momentarily as he strikes me with a daunting question - one that I'm nowhere near prepared to answer.

"August. Where did you get these bruises?"

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