Chosen

Monday Morning

Edited as of 9-2-16

Monday Morning:

           I wake thrashing and looking wildly around the room. Where is he? He was just here! I am screaming. My voice carries across the entire hospital. My family, along with some of the nursing staff come in and crowd around me to see what is wrong.

"He's here! He attacked me again! He's here to finish me off!" I am screaming, I rip my stitches open again, but I don't care. He is here! I need to get away!

"No, you were dreaming!" My father says urgently and takes my hand. My mother is taking the other and brushing back my hair, she kisses my forehead.

"No honey, you're safe now." she says. The nurses franticly press gauze to my open wounds as my parents console me. But, I am not dreaming, he was here. He chose me, he knew who I was, and he could come back! I start to cry again.

Once I calm down and things are quiet again, I sit to wonder. Why did he choose me? I didn't believe it was because of the way I spoke, I think it was darker and more sinister than that. I will never know, and I am not going to go out and try to find him to ask.

I am never alone in the hospital again. Always my mother is with me or my father. My little brother Cody runs around the room sometimes when he is not at school and makes me smile. Still, I feel venerable, and lost.

How can anyone pick up their lives after such a thing happens to them? To me. I know things will never be the same for me again. I will never trust the world again. I can't even trust the rain, something so innocent and free.

Flowers, stuffed bears, and cards cover my room. Roses, lilies, daisies, and all combined with a little baby's breath. Stuffed animals holding hearts cover every available space on tables, and balloons are often tied to them. Get well, get well, get well, they all say. It is really dizzying to read.

The first time I stand up the nurses hold on to my arms. I feel so weak, yet so strong at the same time.

"I can take this." My mother says and she almost pushes the nurse on my right away. My dad as if on cue nods to the nurse on my left and takes her place.

"See, this isn't that bad." Mother says as she walks me to the table of offerings, the only place to go in the room really. Once I am there I can stand on my own. I use the table to support myself. Dad goes and sits down again, apparently uninterested in the cards. But mom pulls one off of the roses, "From uncle Garth, 'Miss you kiddo. Can't wait to see you, and get well!'"

I pretend to be happy and smile for the sake of my mother at least. She tries so hard to be happy around me as if one frown will shatter me after the break down I had earlier from my "dream". I shiver as I think of it again and hope that they are right and it was just a dream.

I open another card that reads, "To our favorite friend. Get well Alana and come back soon, you're missing all the gossip!"

The card is from my closest friends at school. I have found after reading half of the cards they all seem to drip with an over abundance of cheerfulness, and normal. Almost like if they didn't talk about the incident then it wasn't real. How I wish I could believe that lie too. None of the cards say sorry for the serial killer that stabbed you five times, and almost killed you. What they don't tell you is that there is no getting well. There is no better. Once something like this happens to you, you can never go back to normal. I can never go back to normal.

The nurse knocks on the door and comes in without waiting for a reply. She holds another bouquet of flowers, but these ones are different. They are ashy, and pale. The droop as if they too hang on the edge of giving up, just like me. The nurse smiles and puts it on the table exiting without a single word. Which I am glad for because lately I hate words.

I use the table for support as I go to the dead looking roses and pull the card. Mom moves out of the way as I do. I look at the cream colored card and open it, it is crisp in my hand.

"Your last words were not really your last were they?"

The words are simple enough but as soon as I read the jagged print (of course it is typed) I drop the card and cover my mouth and try to move back. I trip and fall. But I can't feel it I only feel the words. They reach for me as if they can choke me and kill me. I don't scream, not this time, I just weep an awful sound full of hate, sorrow and destroyed hopes.

My mother comforts me on the floor although I can hardly tell that she is there, all I can feel is the words. She has not looked at the card that lays on the floor, but my eyes can not leave it.

Dad however goes to the card, and picks up the very form of evil. His skin turns white, almost transparent, "My god."

He knows. I am not forgotten, I am not free. The man of words is watching. He is watching and waiting to hear my words.