The Scars of Anatomy

37. Whole

The illumination of TV casts shadows along the hotel room walls as I mindlessly flip through the channels, hardly paying attention to what's on the screen. I'm sitting on the bed, propped up against the headboard with a wrap around my chest and a cast on my leg.

After nearly two days in the hospital, they released me. I don't remember much from the accident, but the driver that hit me ran the red light at the last second and smashed right into me as soon as I was going through the intersection. I was in and out of it for a while, only recalling bits and pieces of the ambulance ride, and by the time I was fully conscious they already had me bandaged up and Olivia was at my bedside, scared out of her mind. The doctors claim I'm lucky to have come out of it with only a couple of broken ribs, a broken leg, a shit ton of bruises, and some road rash.

The bathroom door clicks open softly and Olivia quietly pads her way into the room, her vanilla body wash wafting in the air. She's in an oversized sleep shirt and shorts, her hair damp from her shower as she walks over to her suitcase, neatly placing her clothes from today inside.

She glances over at me, finding me awake. Her eyes drift over to the clock hanging on the wall, and I can see her mentally doing the math in her head to calculate how many hours it's been since the last time I took my pain meds.

Since we got back from the hospital a few hours ago, she's been taking her role as my nurse very seriously. It's like every ten minutes she's asking me if I'm okay or if I need something, and while I know she being helpful, I can't help but find it extremely frustrating that I can't do anything myself. It's aggravating to feel so useless, helpless, and I can't help but feel mad at the whole world right now.

Olivia walks over to the desk where she has all my pills neatly lined up next to the papers the hospital provided. She pops a few of the pill bottles open and shakes out the correct dosages, recapping the bottles after. Grabbing a water bottle, she walks over to my side of the bed and places it along with the pills on the nightstand.

"Take these," she urges softly, giving me a small smile before wandering back into the bathroom to brush her teeth and finish getting ready for bed.

I grab the water bottle and uncap it, taking a few swigs before grabbing the pills off the nightstand, one accidentally slipping from my fingers and falling to the floor.

With an aggravated huff, and without thinking, I go to lean over the side of bed to pick it up. A sharp pain rips through my side and I suck in a sharp breath through my teeth, letting out a low curse. "Fuck!"

I hear the faucet turn off in the bathroom and Olivia comes rushing out, eyes wide, alert. "What's wrong?"

"Everything!" I snap, all my pent up emotions bubbling to the surface and boiling over. "Everything is wrong!" I reiterate, picking up my water bottle and throwing it across the room where it smacks into the dresser, collapsing onto the floor and spilling all over the carpet.

Olivia stares at me, stunned.

After a beat she approaches me slowly, worry and concern flooding her eyes. "Hey," she coos calmly. "It's okay."

"It's not okay!" I shout. "My fucking leg is broken!" I gesture down to my legs that's covered in plaster from my foot to mid-thigh. "How the hell am I going to play football now? You can't fully come back from an injury like this, and no scout is going to want to talk to me when they find out about my injury!" I explain, furious.

"You don't know that," she says softly, optimistically, making my blood boil further.

In a way—deep down—I wish she'd yell at me, be just as furious. Somehow, I think it would make things twistedly easier.