Interface

Chapter 3

Everything is always the same. It doesn't matter when I wake up, or what day of the week it is, or where the sun is positioned outside my window—nothing changes. The same old faces come in and out of the room, my vitals get checked, the place gets tidied up, equipment is adjusted... The only thing I really have to mark time by are the slightest shifts in my own body. How hard is it to move my fingers? How hard is it to force my face into a smile? Can I still move my toes? How long has it been since I last stood on my own two feet? I can hardly remember—

The door bursts open, Mrs. Thomas shouting her customary greeting in my direction. Her smile is bright as always, but I detect something darker in her eyes this morning. Her eyebrows are curving slightly downwards, her movements more abrupt. When she takes the glasses off my face to dust them for me, she hurts my ears. I give her an inquisitive look, asking her where her gentle attention to detail went.

"Oho, so you noticed," she says curtly, replacing the glasses on my face. "But I shouldn't be surprised—you always were very attentive of yourself, weren't you young lady?"

What's that supposed to mean?

My face slowly works itself into a scowl of confusion, and I try in vain to move my head out of her range when she takes out a brush. I grumble when she scrapes my scalp a little too hard and wince every time she hits a knot.

"Aaah!" I exclaim, scowling at her. "Staaaaaa!"

"Oh, sorry. I guess I'm just a little insensitive this morning," she huffs scathingly, tossing the brush back onto her cart.

What's your problem?! I ask her silently, fuming. The way she's behaving is extremely unprofessional.

"I'd offer you a piece of chocolate, but I'm afraid it has someone else's name on it today," she continues airily, slowly unwrapping a white chocolate bar. She clears some space on the bedside table and takes a seat on it, crossing her legs and pointedly looking away. She breaks a piece of it off and pops it in her mouth, watching me from the corner of her eye as she does so. "Only people sweet enough to match this chocolate get to savor it."

I continue to scowl at her as she continues eating the chocolate bar, breaking off yet another piece and humming with satisfaction the moment it hits her tongue.

Alright, alright, I get it. But what did I do wrong?

She must be very good at reading expressions, because she eventually pauses and turns her head to look at me, that curly mop of hers tumbling around her shoulders. Her face is stern but somehow still kind, her mouth pursed but her eyes still soft despite it.

"So, you wanna know what I heard Cindy talking about this morning?" she asks, raising her eyebrows. She continues without an answer. "Your dad apparently called you yesterday—first time in over a week. Is that right?"

Was that really just yesterday?

It already feels as if an eternity has passed. I bite my lip though, some inkling of what this might be about finally getting to me. I nod meekly, staring at the ceiling stain just over Mrs. Thomas' head. Anywhere but those quietly accusing eyes.

"Mmm, that's what I thought. Now, lemme get this straight... you guys argued, yeah?" she asks, tossing the chocolate bar on the cart and leaning back against the wall.

I nod again. She hums thoughtfully and crosses her arms, staring down at me with an unreadable expression.

"And this argument had to do with your coming home. During which you told him he was a fool for thinking you might live. Do I have the gist of that right?"