Don’t Let the Doctor In
It’s Thursday… He’s coming to see me again. The accident left me pretty shaken up, and now I can’t speak—something happened to my voice. I was told that my vocal chords are ruptured.
I can vaguely remember what happened. I was in the car—Seth had just said something funny, and I had begun to laugh. Then everything…got so blurry—I can’t remember. I couldn’t quite see. I felt a stinging sensation within my throat—I couldn’t move. I tried, but the pain was unbearable. So, I sat back and waited for help—at least, I think I did. I don’t remember much after sitting back. I can scarcely remember reclining back into the seat.
I woke up, here, with a gauze pad splayed across my throat—held in place with soft, white medical tape. I was told that I had been in a car accident.
My first inclination was to ask whether Seth was okay—but when I opened my mouth to speak, there were no words—only the pain of mutilated muscle and raw flesh moving about attempting to produce sound.
The nurse, feeling sympathy for me, tried her best to explain what happened: Some kind of way, Seth ran off the road; the car hit a tree and one of the windshield wipers dislodged from the mount and penetrated my throat— I immediately went unconscious.
I guess that was the stinging sensation that I remember feeling. The wiper must have entered quite clean and scraped my vocals raw when I tried to move.
I held my peace and tried to reposition myself in the bed. At first, it hurt like hell. So, I quickly abandoned the effort. After a few days, I gained a bit more strength and attempted again.
I swear it had to take at least an hour for me to move my head—I had to be careful with my neck. When I got into a comfortable enough position, I sat up and held my arms out in front of me. There were thousands of tiny scars running up and down my arms, in a multitude of colors: bright reds, deep purples, burgundies—all positioned against the stark, pink background of bruised flesh.
For a while, I admired the scars with a certain amount of disgust and awe. But something else—some form of discomfort, an ache, caught my attention.
I lowered my arms and slowly pulled the blankets down to my waist. Carefully, I lifted the medical dress above my navel—higher still until it rested underneath my bust. I sought the source of my irritation, and I found it—a ghastly scar, plum-colored and at least eight-inches in length, etched across my stomach; it leered up at me and grinned a tightly stitched grin.
I’ve been confined to this room for nearly a week now—I’m a bit sore, but I feel significantly better than I had been feeling. I can’t seem to convince Seth of that though.
He sat next to me and clasped both hands around one of mine. He had been here with me all day, filling me in with more details about the wreck.
He had apparently gotten out of the wreck, scot-free. He had no serious injuries. The only mark that could attest to him being in the car with me was a tiny, purple scar on the left side of his forehead—which he had gotten by hitting his head on the steering wheel.
I glanced over at the door and noticed a shadow pooling underneath. He was here—
Frightened, I slowly turned towards Seth and studied him with nervous eyes.
After raising a curious brow, Seth leaned forward and kissed my forehead.
“Don’t be so scared. He just wants to run a few tests—“
I shut my eyes and snapped them back open in a display of definite disapproval. Then I clasped his shirt tightly in my fingers and sought his eyes for a trace of understanding—to see if he could detect the silent message which rose to the roof of my soul and bled into my eyes in the form of a hollow stare:
"Please... Don’t let the doctor in—"
* * *
© Copyright 2016 Jennifer Brighton. All rights reserved.
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