Playing Doctor

Chapter 13

They talk outside my door when they think I'm not listening. It scares me because sometimes I hear things I don't want to hear. Brenda thinks I'm going to die. Henry wants to keep me. This wasn't the first time they had done this. I wouldn't be the last girl to be in this bed if I die.

    “Henry, you fucked up.” Brenda's voice, soft but loud.

    The door was cracked open a tad. I could see the blue of Brenda's frog printed scrubs. There was another shadow, a smudge. That was Henry.

    “It's fine, everything's fine. She will be fine.” He sounded uncertain.

    Was I going to be fine?

    I glanced at my foot. It was re-bandaged. It looked lumpy, wrong. There was still blood on the white. Bright splashes of color painting the roses red.

    I was on a lot of drugs. A lot. Many. Brenda gave them to me like candy. Blue ones. White ones. Pink ones. Anything to keep me from screaming in pain. To keep me from talking too much. To make me sleep without thrashing.

    What have they done to me?

    “You killed her, just like Ruby.” Brenda again.

    Who was Ruby? And why was she dead? What happened to her? There was no answer to that. Henry grunted. I heard flesh on flesh. A sharp smack. And then angry footstep hurry away. Brenda's blue scrub was still in a view for a few moments before she turned. Her head peeked into my room and I stared straight at her. She didn't seem to notice. Her face scowled at me, as if she decided I wasn't worth the fake niceness anymore. She left then.

    She didn't come back to give me food.

    She didn't come back when I had to use the bathroom.

    She didn't come back to clean my sheets.

    She didn't care about me anymore.

    Henry didn't either. No one came to see me. It was like I was the only one here, staring at the white room, slowly feeling fever taking me over. The TV reflected my broken, worn, husk of a body. Skinny and pale and dying.

    God did I wish it would end.

    No one wanted me.

    I wouldn't be here if someone had tried to find me.

    That was right, wasn't it?

    How long had it been? Days, weeks, months? Someone must have looked. Must have given up. Probably thought I was dead in a ditch somewhere. My parents probably put a headstone on an empty patch of grass and moved on. Maybe they'd have another kid. One they loved and knew would replace me.

    Poor me.

    Why would they abandon me?