by A.R. Rivera
60
-Angel
The nurses and doctors want to know what happened even though there is an eyewitness who told them I was showering like I always did. My supervising orderly would say I was smiling, singing, and stupidly trying to dance in the shower while covered in slippery soap. I know that's what the orderly saw, because that's what I did.
But they're still asking. They want me to say it. They want me to tell them I tripped so they can ask if that's the truth. They want to call me a liar.
"Mister Brandon has been calling every day to check on you. I have the number, so whenever you're ready to call let me know and I'll make sure it happens." Some random nurse says.
"Mister Brandon? I don't want to talk to him." I turn over in my bed, staring at the wall while the patter of retreating feet fades from my room.
The last thing I need right now is another announcement. Another judgment. Another person repeating to me the same words I was told when my trial ended: I will die in this place.
I'd be happy to, but could we make it sooner rather than later?
I scoff, thinking of dying and wishing that A-and stop the thought right there, realizing I haven't seen . . . a certain someone since that day in the shower.
I woke up without . . . and don't want to jinx anything.
If I wonder too much she might reappear.
