Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Outside my room, the hall is busy. Busier than I can recollect from earlier, but mostly everything is fuzzy, and right now I’m having a hard time separating fact from fiction. Someone is singing. Another is whistling. And I remember someone playing guitar earlier. Or was it the other day? I’m starting to feel like I’ve imagined things, such as Noah being here and kissing me.
That I know is fiction. Not only would he not be here, but kissing me is definitely out of the question. He’s with Dessie. And whether I’m hurt or not, there would be no way in hell she’d let him come to see me.
It doesn’t escape my notice that my room is empty, and honestly, I sort of like it. I welcome the peace and quiet. I know my family is worried, but they’re hovering. They ask me how I’m doing or if I’m okay every time I grimace. They want to touch me, hug me, coddle me, and when they realize they can’t, the look of upset on their faces makes me feel like I’ve done something wrong.
I look at my casts. Long gone are the days of white plaster which could be decorated with an array of sharpies. A hard bandage looking material has taken its place, making it almost impossible to write on. Both my casts are pink, making me believe my mother and sister picked them out. I hate pink. I would’ve opted for black or something fun like orange.
The color orange makes my thoughts switch to Kyle. It took a day or two for my memory to come back but I’m still lacking the small details. From what I can remember, we met at the game and hit it off. Still, I’m going to ask my mom. At least, I’m hoping she knows. There’s something in the back of my mind telling me that Kyle could be special though.
A nurse or an orderly, I don’t know which or if that’s even her title, comes in with my tray of food. I press the button that raises my bed until I’m somewhat comfortable and wait for her to push the mobile cart into place. Thing is, I can’t recall doing this any other time, so how is it that I know?
“It’s nothing fancy, but the toast is pretty good.”
“Wait, is this my first meal?” She looks at me as if I have two heads. “What have I been eating?” I ask her, utterly confused.
“That machine over there.”
“Oh, okay.”
As soon as she leaves, I pick up my fork and stare at the over easy eggs, the slices of ham that need to be cut, and my left hand. “Yeah, not gonna work,” I mutter to myself. In fact, the only possible thing I can eat are the slices of fruit, the toast, which is dry, and if I can get enough force behind it, I’ll be able to stab the foil on my cup of juice so I can drink that. Everything else requires two hands. I have one working one, if you can call it that. The IVs pinch if I’m not careful.
Out of frustration, I push the tray away. My stomach protests. The couple pieces of fruit and dry toast aren’t doing anything to curb my hunger. I’m also very uncomfortable. The pain in my chest is almost unbearable. I recline my bed and the ache starts to subside, but not enough. I push the button that delivers my painkillers and wait for the agonizing feeling to go away.
I’m on the verge of tears when my mother walks in. She’s nothing but smiles when I’m nothing but anger.
“Sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up.”
“It’s fine. You don’t have to be here twenty-four seven.”
“You know I’m going to be, Peyton. Did you eat your breakfast?”
“Nope.”
“Are you not hungry?”
I look at her, then down at the cast on my arm, which extends over my fingers. “I have maybe the use of one hand. I can’t eat unless it’s finger foods. Speaking of which, how was I eating before I went into surgery?”
My mom pulls the tray over and starts cutting up the eggs. They’re runny and considering I’ve already eaten the toast there isn’t anything to sop the yolk up with. “You had a feeding tube, but Dr. Colby removed it when you went back into surgery.”
I glance down at my chest, wondering what kind of monster I look like. “I’m ugly now.”
“Open up,” she says, feeding me like I’m a baby. “And please don’t say that. You’re alive, Peyton, and you’re beautiful, inside and out. The scar on your chest is just a sign of how resilient and strong you are. When I look at you, I see my daughter, the fighter, who looks the same today, with her gorgeous brown hair and bright blue eyes as she did last month.”