Misfits

1 | clockwork

❝the future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams❞
ｅｌｅａｎｏｒ ｒｏｏｓｅｖｅｌｔ

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   ＡＴ some point, I must have gotten used to the smell of hospitals.

That sickly stench of disinfectant and death that had once made my gut wrench doesn't feel quite as suffocating as it did two months ago. It's barely noticeable now; if not comforting in an odd, familiar sort of way, and this thought doesn't even occur to me until the woman next to me mentions it.

"When are you coming?" she whispers into her phone. "I don't want to stay here any longer. Just breathing the air here makes me sick."

The woman grips the device to her ear, gazing around anxiously as she continues her conversation in a hushed voice. She must be new around here.

I close my eyes and try to block out her words to stop myself from eavesdropping any further. Sinking deeper into my seat, I lean my head back against the wall behind me and let out a quiet sigh.

So much can change within a few months.

I stay like this for a few more minutes, eyes closed and mind drifting through space. When I feel enough time has passed, I open them again and promptly zero in on the clock.

1:53 PM.

That should be long enough.

Mom's session is due to finish at 2 o' clock. She hates me being there the entire time — she hates me visiting altogether, but she minds less when I come towards the end to take her home.

I rise from my seat and wander the wards until I reach the department I know she'll be in. The same place she's been going to frequently since the doctors said she was ready to advance to the next stage of her treatment: rehabilitation.

The gunshot wound that put my mother in the hospital had caused mild damage to her spinal cord and had left her temporarily paralysed. As far as spinal cord injuries go, I am told hers is relatively minor. It's fortunate that no permanent damage was done to any other organ, the doctors say. The fact she's regained some feeling in her lower limbs is a good sign that full recovery is possible.

It's been six weeks since she started the physiotherapy. The doctors still predict that she should be able to walk again unassisted one day. Though it's difficult to tell if they mean it, or if they're afraid of what would happen to them if she doesn't.

Morgana can get better.

That's the hope.

For now, my mother is still trying to adjust to the life of a wheelchair user.

From the small window pane in the door, I watch as my mother is led away from a set of bars that line a carpeted walkway and back into her wheelchair — which typically marks the end of these sessions.

I linger by the door a little while longer while she speaks to the physiotherapist before I decide to make my presence known by walking into the room.

Jan, a member of Mom's medical team that has been assigned to this hospital to ensure her recovery, looks up with a warm smile on her face that contrasts the distressed look on my mother's.