Wilted

3)Wilted

The mornings when Maxwell have to go to work are the most peaceful, for obvious reasons. I find myself too weak and sick to be sad about Maxwell hurting me, or to be sad about the good Maxwell leaving.

I find myself awake at around six in the morning. I didn't get much sleep anyway, not with the throbbing in my back. I wonder if it's infected, my welt. I hope so, so that Maxwell will be forced to take me to the hospital.

I wrap my body in a silk robe, tying the strings as tight as they would go. I don't bother with brushing my hair, because it would take too long, and because I never go anywhere anyway.

Avoiding my own gaze, I look away from the mirror and brush my teeth instead. I don't want to know what I look like. It couldn't be anything remotely pretty. I haven't been considered pretty in years.

I guess that's a conceited thing, to want to be pretty. Maybe not conceited. That doesn't sound right. Vain, I think, is a better alternative. Or maybe selfish. What is pretty, anyway? What is beautiful?

Is it the gold decorations in my foyer? Or maybe the blood red roses in my garden? I'm not sure. I am sure that they were beautiful, at some point, but have since been tainted.

Or maybe that is me, maybe I am tainted. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, is it not? How can someone see beauty in life if life looks like me? If ugly looks like me? And thinks like me, and sounds like me. Ugly is me, is my body and my hair. The faint scars on my wrists and the tears that drip down my neck.

I'm not sure, not of much anymore. So I continue with my morning, with things that are familiar and things I do know.

Cook breakfast for Maxwell, clean the house, maybe take a nap, maybe read a book. I'll find something to nibble on, later, in hopes that it stays down this time. I serve Maxwell his eggs and bacon, saving a little for me in case I can stomach it. He leaves quickly, placing a kiss on the side of my head. I smile at him, because that's better than poking the bear, and watch as his car leaves the driveway. I turn back and settle down into the couch. I turn the tv on, but feel too lethargic and sick to focus. I wonder what's wrong, if the welt on my back really is infected, and wish I had a phone to call someone with. What's wrong with me?

Something moves under my eyes, and I look down.

"Oh!" I shoot up off of the white couch, only to regret it. I feel dizzy and lay on the floor, my body burning hot. On the couch, right where I was sitting, is a pool of blood and discharge. It's hot and sticky between my legs, and the pain that throbs between my legs is almost unbearable. Am I on my period?

I'm not sure, but the pain is too much, which is crazy to think about, and I pass out.

———
I wake up slowly, feeling my limbs twitch and stretch. Keeping my eyes closed, I turn my head away from the bright light above me. A soft beeping is heard to my right. Finally, I open my eyes and take notice of the room I'm in. It's familiar, very much so, and I groan. I'm in the hospital, in my designated room. It must be late afternoon, judging by the soft glow of sunlight that sits low under the window. I look around, catching the sight of Maxwell's jacket in the seat by the tv mounted on the wall. An IV is stuck into my arm, giving me fluids. My body lay prepped up on the pillows, and one poke from my hand finds my thighs clean and no longer sticky. I reach back and press the nurse call button, watching with dazed eyes as the infomercial ends on the muted tv.

"Knock, knock!" I hear and turn my head to the left. A short nurse enters the room, reaching out to a hand sanitizer dispenser. She gathers the sanitizer in her two hands and rubs quickly, eyes flicking over my body in one quick sweep. "How are ya feelin', doll?"

"I'm fine." I croak. She smiles and hands me the cup of water that rested on the side table.

"Go on and drink that up. You're very dehydrated, which isn't good for someone with your condition." She says, fiddling with the monitor on my left.