All in

Chapter 7

Jason's POV

I'll be the first to admit that when I came out of the coma and realized what had happened; what my future might be, I was a total dick. Yep, I was that guy. Total dick with a capital D.

The thing was, everyone kind of expected it, and man, did I deliver. I threw some serious tantrums, the kind my family hadn't seen since I was at least two years old. I broke a lot of shit and used words to hurt (when I could get them out, because in the beginning, that was stupid hard to do).

But over the last six months, I've learned to deal with it, or at least I though I had. You see, I was almost there. Almost halfway to normal. Until thursday night. Man, I hadn't seen that coming. Thursday night, I completely lost my shit.

Seizure.

The word alone gave me the goddamn creeps. Seriously. I hear the word and picture a guy all twisted up with snot running out of his nose and saliva falling from the corner of his mouth. I picture a rabid dog with a foaming snarl or a screwed-up mental patient.

I close my eyes and see a freak on the floor.

And now that is me. I am the freak on the floor.

Back when I was still in the hospital, the doctor had told us that it wasn't uncommon for someone who'd suffered a TBI to have a seizure. Usually they occur in the days and weeks just after whatever incident caused the TBI. He told us they could still appear months or years afterwards, but it wasn't as common.

Which kind of sucks, because in that year, you start to think that maybe (at least on the outside) you can get back to normal. If you learn to hide all the defects, the ones on the inside that no one can see, then maybe you can live your life as if nothing had happened. I could go back to being Jason Smith, the guy who had it all.

That's what I was aiming for, and yeah, it was damn hard work. The headaches alone were exhausting. And the nights when I couldn't sleep sure as hell[he's angry give him that emotion instead of indifference] didn't help. But my memory blips weren't as bad as they used to be, my guitar chops were slowly coming back, and once I passed the stupid economics, I would graduate and leave for New York.

So I was a dreamer. Sue me. I had a plan, and for the last year, it was that plan that had gotten me through. NYC, my buddy Alex, and our music.

But now?

I splashed cold water on my face and glared at the mirror above the sink. Now the fact that I was me but I wasn't me was real hard to ignore. I still looked the same. All the evidence of the accident and coma were buried. The scar from when they'd cut open my skull because my brain had swollen was hidden beneath my hair. Since I liked my hair on the long side, that wasn't happening anytime soon.

I worked out like a son of a bitch, and other than my knee, my body was good. Physically, I was probably in the best shape I've ever been. I had all my teeth. They were straight. White. Perfect. My eyes looked the same. Nose had escaped the accident unscathed.

Every single thing about me looked the same, and yet it wasn't.

Seizure. If ever one word can define you, that was it for me.

I wouldn't be the same again. Ever.

My fists clenched, and for a moment, I let the rage swell. I pushed up from my chest and fired through my cells. I can't lie. In a sick way, it felt good.

My perfectly normal face stared back at me, and I wanted to smash the mirror and obliterate the image, because it was a total effing lie.

Shit.