Tide

Chapter 48

The last thing I remembered was staring at myself in the mirror.

Everything after that was just a blur.

When I got to the hospital, I could feel my consciousness slipping away. Everything around me was happening so slowly. I didn't understand what was going on. Doctors poked my skin with needles, pain aching and spreading through my body, then they made me swallow stuff. I threw up, a lot, and my head throbbed with persistent pain.

After being treated, they took me to another hospital where I was questioned. It wasn't very pleasant. It was like a whole other Ms. Campbell session, only this time, the questions were flat out and direct. They just needed to find out the details on what had happened. I wasn't very helpful, though. I had barely remembered the event myself.

After that, I stayed in the hospital for a few days. I had to constantly be watched and interviewed with by psychologists. It wasn't a happy place, that was for sure. I'd overhear teens and kids discussing suicide, mental health, and each and everyone of them sharing their stories. I didn't want to be there, but I'd seen worse. The hospital was nothing compared to the chaos-infested ones in Thailand. I could still hear the screams - the people talking to themselves - those shouting the names of their loved ones. 2004 was glued to my mind, which was coincidentally part of the reason why I ended up in the hospital in the first place.

At lunch, I had to sit with all of the other teenagers in the hospital. I never spoke to them. Instead, I kept silent and picked at my food with my plastic fork, never bothering to eat. I felt tired and sick. It was awful.

A girl with frizzy hair sat down next to me with a tray of food. We glanced at each other for a split-second, our eyes meeting. Then she quickly looked away and kept her gaze on her food. I caught a glimpse at her wrists, which had scars crawling up them, drawn across her freckled skin.

"What are you looking at?" she scowled.

I looked away. "Nothing."

The girl released a deep breath and at the corner of my eye, I could see her watching me. "I didn't mean to say it like that."

"It's okay," I said. "I didn't take it personally."

There was a long moment of silence, until finally she asked me, "Why are you here?"

"Um, post-traumatic stress." I muttered.

"Post-traumatic stress?" she repeated.

"Yeah."

"From what?" she asked.

There was another long pause. I didn't how to reply, simply because I wasn't in the mood to talk about it after hours on end of therapy. So instead, I just kept silent, and never responded.

After a few days, I could finally go home. But I didn't want to. I was ashamed. Embarrassed. I knew that people would ask questions. I knew that people would sent their condolences to my mother and I. On top of the sympathy I had gotten for surviving the tsunami, I just knew that this was the spark of more recognition that I didn't want.

And I was right.

Staring through the rain-speckled window, I watched the road zoom past me. I sat in the car with my mom on my way home, both of us refusing to give eye contact. She kept her eyes on the road, and I kept mine out the window. I felt numb. Emotionless.

Finally, my mother broke the silence. Her voice was quiet. "A lot of people are wanting to know if you're okay."

My throat tightened. I swallowed. "And?"

"You should call them when we get home."

I didn't say anything. I didn't want to call them. I didn't want to do anything. I didn't.