Life After Death

Chapter 3

I wake slowly the next day. My body slowly brings itself up out of the depths of sleep, trying to remember how to function properly. I rub my bleary eyes and open them. Judging by the light outside my room, it's probably late morning by now.
A plate with my breakfast sits on the dining table; scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, fruit, and a glass of orange juice.
I get out of bed and stretch out my sore limbs, as I do this I notice several bruises along my forearm from the sheer strength the nurses were using to try to settle me. I'm vaguely aware of a sense of shame overcome. How fucked up am I?
I contemplate this as I walk over to the rest room and clean up before breakfast.
I was all but almost done with breakfast before my eyes snagged on a leather bound book sitting on the dresser across from my table, right below the window.
I pick it up and the first page reads,
"Perhaps the journal can bring you solace, -G"
A journal. From Dr. Goodwell. What am I twelve? I sigh and pick up the ball point pen laying next to where the journal was. Perhaps she's right. I have always struggled with opening up to others and communicating my feelings accurately. Writing, however, is my strong suit.
A nurse comes in an at that moment and takes my vitals, poking and probing and asking questions such as how much pain am I in. I answer honestly that I'm actually quite sore, and she gives me some pain killers before administering my depression medicine. I take a tablet a day at exactly noon.
I gulp down the tablet and she quietly exists the room.
Once alone, I settle myself comfortably on the bed and begin writing:

"My grandmother used to live in an old run down apartment building in Little Havana, Miami. We would go visit her a couple times a year to see how she was doing, and to have some of her home-made empanadas. The only time we ever ate well was when we saw grandma, so naturally, we were eager to go see her. 

Enzo drove us that day. It was around Thanksgiving and I was so excited to spend time with grandma and eat her amazing cooking. I have always loved the Holidays, even when I had nothing to look forward to. We didn't get gifts on Christmas day nor did our mother make a big fuss about decorating the house or cooking dinner. Grandma tried though. she and our mother didn't get along at all, perhaps because our mother obviously sucked at being a mother. 

We walked up the stairs to the apartment building, and knocked on her door. As usual, she was very happy to see us. She beamed as the door swung open and enveloped us in a tight embrace. 

We immediately swooped over to the kitchen like a flock of vultures and began demolishing her beef empanadas, still warm from the oil. I split one in half and the savory scent of beef, potatoes, and tangy olives hit my nostrils. My mouth began to water. 

Unfortunately, I was only on my third one before the peace was disturbed. Grandma had apparently been asking Enzo something in her rapt Spanish about his tattoos that, over the years, have come to dominate his face. My brother is a very handsome man. He's tall and has beautiful hazel eyes. However, he is part of a gang and to them tattoos are cool. Thus, my brother has steadily added tattoos to his lovely face, to the point where he's almost unrecognizable. 

The tattoos in question today are the ones he's recently added to his eyelids boasting the phrase, "Fuck Love". 

My grandmother was giving him an earful about how exactly the tattoos displeased her, when my brother lashed out. Before I knew it he was on his feet, and had punched a hole in the wall. My grandmother screamed and my brother was yelling at her, his eyes murderous and his fists clenched at his sides. Vicky and Adri were screaming at Enzo to leave her alone, while I sat frozen at the table. I remember my heart racing in my small chest and my wide eyes flickering between my siblings and my grandmother. 

I had to get out of there. While everyone was busy screaming, I snuck outside. Their ear splitting screaming was still audible on the other side of the door so I ran down the hallway. The apartment building has an open type of floorplan with a court yard in the center. I had just gotten out of the screaming range, when I saw a small bicycle abandoned along the rail. Intrigued, I went to investigate. The bicycle looked like it was in good shape, so it was definitely owned by someone. It was a pretty pastel pink with blue and pink strings attached to either side of the handle bars. I looked around; there was no one to be seen. Surely the owner wouldn't mind it if I borrowed it for a little while? 

I hopped onto the seat and I was soon racing down passages and turning sharply around corners. I remember smiling broadly and laughing gleefully as the wind whipped my hair around my face. The ends of each strand stung my face, but I didn't care. I was blissfully happy. 

I was just turning a corner when I noticed my mistake. I had turned the corner of the hallway not heading back towards my grandmother's apartment but towards the cement staircase leading towards the street below. I didn't have time to stop. 

I tumbled head over heels, landed on my back, and hit my head with a loud smack against the stairs. Tears sprang to my eyes, but I didn't have time to even cry, I was quickly falling down the stairs, my back hitting each step along the way. As I neared the end, the bike's handle hit me hard between the legs and I cried out in pain as I fell forward onto my hands and knees, gravel biting mercilessly into my skin. 

I laid there for a long time letting the pain ebb away until it left me numb. Tears streamed down my face silently. I moved to get up and winced with pain. I remember feeling as if I had gotten hit by a car. 

It took a long time for me to get up, but I eventually did and slowly made my way back up the stairs, hauling the bike along with me. The journey was agonizing. 

Once at the landing, I  deposited the bike there, and held onto the wall for support as I walked back to the apartment. 

By that time, the screaming had subsided and as I walked in, everyone looked a the door with confusion. Naturally, no one had even seen me leave. My sisters took one look at me and roared with laughter. Hot burning tears rushed to my face and my grandmother took me to the bathroom. She cleaned me up and told me to strip so she can investigate the bruising and bleeding. I hesitated, but painfully took off my pants. My grandmother gasped as she took in my underwear. They were stained red. She looked up at me with an expression of pity in her almond shaped eyes. 

Later that evening, I sat on the toilet for what felt like hours as the blood trickled down; scarlet blood mixing with urine. 

The next day we drove home and all during the ride I worried about how mother would react. Enzo parked the car and we shuffled into the house, with me limping behind. Mom was in her usual place, asleep, so I earned a respite from her scorn for just a bit longer. 

However, it didn't last too long. By dinner time, she had emerged from her cave and like magnets, her eyes landed on me. If it hadn't been for the blue and purple bruises blooming across my face and arms, I could have gotten away with it. 

I shrank beneath her ominous stare. "What happened to you?" she seethed. 

"I fell off a bike," I stammered in response, knowing all too well silence would be the death penalty. 

"What bike? You don't have a bike," she snapped, stepping towards me. 

I opened m mouth to reply but she snatched my arm and dragged me towards the stove. I had no time to react before she had cut on the gas and hovered my hand dangerously close to the burner. 

I writhed and screamed, trying in vain to get away. "You're a filthy little thief," she said hotly, "I'll burn that habit right out of you," she said as she lowered my hand onto the burner, with a wicked gleam in her eye. 

My skin made contact and I screamed perhaps the loudest I ever have. I could smell the flesh cooking and hear it sizzling. Nausea rocketed its way up my throat until I was puking from both the smell and the pain. The pain was unbearable. 

She seemed annoyed and disgusted by my reaction and pushed me back so I fell down cradling my wounded hand. Tears streamed down my face and I moaned as I looked down at my ruined hand. The skin was red hot and blistering and some areas were darkened by grill marks. 

Vicky rushed to my side and began spreading burn ointment generously over my hand before wrapping it up in gauze. Meanwhile I was a spluttering mess. 

I went to bed that night, and for the first time, contemplated what my life would be like if I just ran away and never looked back. "