“My arm will look like a pin cushion when I’m out of here,” I thought.
Back in the darkness. All alone. Cold. Hungry.
I opened my eyes. Everything was blinding. I squinted as my eyes adjusted to the light. I was back in my room and my mom was hovering over me. Her emerald eyes were focused on me. They were brighter than normal because there were red rings around them. Her nose was bright red too. Her usually soft and perfect hair hung limp around her face.
“What happened? Where’s the hospital?” I croaked. Her face lit up when she heard my voice.
“You don’t remember coming home?” she asked. A mixture of pain, sadness, happiness, and joy washed across her face. I shook my head and felt a dull pain. She sighed and told me what happened. For the next couple of days, I refused to believe what she had told me- even though I knew it was all true.
She had a bunch of simple tasks that I was to perform everyday so we could figure out what I could do. It was all stupid stuff like seeing if I could feed myself with a spoon, zip up a coat, write with a pencil, etc. I hated it. Of course I could do all of it, but it was time consuming.
“Do you still have my spare toothbrush?” Lamai asked me, breaking up my flashback. She looked pale and was clutching her stomach.
I smiled sympathetically, “Pizza not agreeing with you?” She nodded as I fished around one of my drawers. I tossed her the toothbrush and stared at my reflection. I closed my door and got changed. Pulling on my favorite pair of jeans, I felt pressure on my tattoo. Oh. My. God. That thing itched so f-ing bad! I sighed and changed into a pair of low-rise jeans. My tattoo was exposed, but I didn’t care. I pulled a black tank top and walked towards the bathroom.
I knocked and said, “Just pick anything you want out of the closet,” I walked downstairs to the kitchen and made myself breakfast. Lamai walked down a couple minutes later wearing a skirt that started just below her tattoo and a low-cut, long-sleeved, sparkly-purple shirt. She grabbed a banana and sat down across from me.
“I know I look like a slut,” she said, “I don’t give a fuck. This tattoo is burning up right now and I prefer comfort over looks,”
“Don’t worry, we all do,” I said as I pointed at my outfit.
“You don’t look that bad,” Lamai said, eating her banana.
“I look like Mila,” I said, “Minus her skin tone and her hair and eye color,” Lamai laughed and threw the banana peel away.
Back in the darkness. All alone. Cold. Hungry.
I opened my eyes. Everything was blinding. I squinted as my eyes adjusted to the light. I was back in my room and my mom was hovering over me. Her emerald eyes were focused on me. They were brighter than normal because there were red rings around them. Her nose was bright red too. Her usually soft and perfect hair hung limp around her face.
“What happened? Where’s the hospital?” I croaked. Her face lit up when she heard my voice.
“You don’t remember coming home?” she asked. A mixture of pain, sadness, happiness, and joy washed across her face. I shook my head and felt a dull pain. She sighed and told me what happened. For the next couple of days, I refused to believe what she had told me- even though I knew it was all true.
She had a bunch of simple tasks that I was to perform everyday so we could figure out what I could do. It was all stupid stuff like seeing if I could feed myself with a spoon, zip up a coat, write with a pencil, etc. I hated it. Of course I could do all of it, but it was time consuming.
“Do you still have my spare toothbrush?” Lamai asked me, breaking up my flashback. She looked pale and was clutching her stomach.
I smiled sympathetically, “Pizza not agreeing with you?” She nodded as I fished around one of my drawers. I tossed her the toothbrush and stared at my reflection. I closed my door and got changed. Pulling on my favorite pair of jeans, I felt pressure on my tattoo. Oh. My. God. That thing itched so f-ing bad! I sighed and changed into a pair of low-rise jeans. My tattoo was exposed, but I didn’t care. I pulled a black tank top and walked towards the bathroom.
I knocked and said, “Just pick anything you want out of the closet,” I walked downstairs to the kitchen and made myself breakfast. Lamai walked down a couple minutes later wearing a skirt that started just below her tattoo and a low-cut, long-sleeved, sparkly-purple shirt. She grabbed a banana and sat down across from me.
“I know I look like a slut,” she said, “I don’t give a fuck. This tattoo is burning up right now and I prefer comfort over looks,”
“Don’t worry, we all do,” I said as I pointed at my outfit.
“You don’t look that bad,” Lamai said, eating her banana.
“I look like Mila,” I said, “Minus her skin tone and her hair and eye color,” Lamai laughed and threw the banana peel away.
