That’s the last thing I said. I could be dead. Or I could be dying. Or trapped. I might . . . my chest contracts. Anxiety wracks me with earthquake tremors. A yearning snaps every nerve. I want. I need. I have to see her. Talk to her. Tell her, I didn’t mean it. Or I don’t mean it. I don’t mean it anymore. Not anymore.
“Mom,” I whisper.
It comes out with a clack of teeth. A long glistening drip of drool. I reach up to wipe my mouth. Or go to.
My bandaged hands stop me. Bandaged. What the hell?
I know I’m hurt.
I mean I feel hurt. Everything feels hurt. But bandages on my fingers, my hands. Wrapped big like there’s more to them than usual. Bandages following up my arms. Past my arms to my chest and continuing under what appears to be a gown. A hospital gown.
Is this a hospital?
I push up with one arm, everything creaking, groaning, popping. Swing my legs over the edge. Hear a slap on the wall behind me. Twist, my head. It doesn’t twist. Instead pain flairs like an X Ray in my brain. Place my feet on the floor. My feet. Too long. Too big. It’s all wrong.
Maybe it’s just the bandages making things look weird. Maybe it’s just shock making me see things out of proportion. I hope.
How badly hurt am I if everything is bandaged? How messed up are things?