Stories from Somewhere Else

My eyes curiously scanned the pastel painted walls of the hospital as they swept out of my vision, and I acknowledged the nurses who waved to me with a silent nod or the best smile I could muster. My knee ached, and there was a dull throb in my mouth, even though morphine had already been pumped through my veins. The nurse pushing my wheelchair – a very chipper woman, indeed – prattled with my parents about this special part of the hospital, one meant just for patients who were zero to seventeen. My mind still fixed on the previous events of the day, I hardly listened in to her explanation. It was still hard to fathom that I’d been laying down on a slippery road only hours ago, blood dripping from my mouth and painting the snow red. I could still feel the impact of the car’s bumper slamming into my knee, still hear the choked groan that escaped my mouth when I landed on the cold ground. I inwardly shuddered. It was one thing to witness another person become hurt, but to hear your ow