Crazy is the Name of My Game

( 8 ) WTF?!

Erica Santos

“I REALLY AM OKAY,” I insisted to the middle-aged nurse, my voice an octave higher than normal. “I don’t need that anymore.”

She appraised me under her rimless, amber-tinted glasses, her face still lit by a polite smile. She didn’t respond, but her sure fingers massaged my wrists, then the base of my neck.

“It’s not hurting,” I assured, getting somewhat irritated that I was still confined inside the bland room. The white walls, the bleached curtains and the unmistakable stink of alcohol were all too familiar. It made me feel claustrophobic.

“Try to stretch,” she instructed, and I did so reluctantly. Her gnarled fingers poked my arms.

“This is all a big, big misunderstanding.”

My disgust was very apparent in my tone. How could she not hear it? Despite my condition, I would rather run miles than that. But with her indulgent demeanor matching that of a kindergarten nanny’s rather than of a medical aide, I knew all my protests landed on deaf ears.

For all she cared, I might have been a log or hog or a teenage girl with crow feet.

 “Really?” she asked while probing my swollen left ankle. I tried very hard not to show my wince. Obviously, I wasn’t being successful at it.

“Would you stop doing that?” I said through gritted teeth. My fists were balled beside me. Any minute now and I would be strangling her. And she wouldn’t like that.

As if to taunt me, she pulled my injured foot, making me cry in surprise.

“Is it painful, sweetie?” A smirk was forming on her ruby red lips.

My vision turned watery. She let go of the foot without warning.

“MWAHAHAHAHAHA!!!” she cackled while twisting her slick black moustache like a primitive villain. I, the meek lamb of a damsel in distress, cringed in near tears as my hands and feet were bound ruthlessly, taking advantage of my injuries. She eyed me hungrily, her marred face foiled in calm menace, fully aware and eager to send me off soon to much worst fate.

Or so I imagine.

I blew my bangs off my face.

This wasn’t the time to daydream! I had to act. Now. But how? The situation wasn’t as simple as differentiating black and white, bad and good or yes and no. The distinction was a blurred line with me threading dangerously in between.

If I win, then I am free, but if I fail, I will head straight to that unbearable place.

What should I do? My villainous character was nowhere in sight. And the thing binding me was no rope or chain – it was the web of lies I spun.

“Painful?” she repeated, her tone still indulgent.

“A little,” I allowed while she continued to check my ankle. “It’s not that bad.”

“Really?” she asked dubiously. The nurse shook her head with a half-wistful smile, my school clinic record tucked under her arms. “This is not just cramps, sweetie. I’m afraid you damaged a major ligament.”

 “PE tends to do that sometimes,” I faked a chuckle as my own eyes started to wander around. Her etched brow arched questioningly. I knew I’m usually very good at lying, but only when I’m in the mood. Today wasn’t my day. I sighed in distress.

Wait, did she just say major?

 “Not just that. A serious ankle injury, a bruised torso and arm muscle contractions from playing Ping-Pong?” The emphasis on the last two words was more than obvious. Her beady eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Coach isn’t that much of a Spartan.”