Can we sleep forever? Part2
I started smelling things.
Disinfectant wipes.
I hate the smell of them.
Antiseptics..
What the hell? Was this a hospital?
I struggled to open my eyes, feeling weirdly groggy. I'd slit my wrist. I should be in hell, or limbo, or something.
Or did hell smell like this now?
My body was heavy, feeling like lead. I finally managed to open my eyes fully, and the tiled ceiling above looked like it was mocking me. It was an actual hospital. My face flushed, weirdly in embarrassment. Of course my first suicidal attempt was a fail. Maybe the next time I should just jump off a building or something.
Wait....was this normal?
I squirmed, struggling to stand up, startling the person who was apparently sleeping on a low cot beside me. The person stood and gasped, somewhere between a choked sob and a laugh. It was my mom.
Of course she'd be the only one here. It's her duty as a mother. I mentally prepared myself for the scolding and curses that'd be screamed at me later. Did my nursing council exams already pass? Would I have to start again? What was happening?
When I looked back at her, she was at the door, calling someone's attention. A nurse soon walked in, did a little check, before telling my mom that the doctor would explain more to her, but that she held up well. My mom started crying wildly. I didn't want to hear this. I wanted to go back to that calm darkness of death, not this. This was annoying.
I definitely wasn't normal.
"Nurse.." I breathed out, my voice sounding like an accident. "I need a sedative or she should leave. It's noisy." My mom's face clearly showed she was hurt, but I couldn't care less.
This continued through the next months, even during my physical therapy and after I was discharged. I wasn't surprised. We could never see eye to eye. I had to go back to school after a month and surprisingly, there wasn't much I missed. I didn't talk to anyone though. I was always so close to exploding before, but now, I stopped trying to hold back. I stopped trying at all. Everyone was tired of me. Probably.
I went home for holidays, but spent it in my room, stocking up on snacks the few times I went out.
"Let's go see a therapist."
I looked up from the Netflix movie I was watching, wondering how my mom got into my room. It was usually locked.
"What for? I'm fine. You said that yourself."
"That was before this." She sounded so stretched, to the limit, that I felt obligated to listen to her. Plus she was my mom, a Nigerian who believed in the rod for the child. So her suggesting therapy must mean I left her shook.
"Fine."
She looked surprised. I focused back on my movie. She closed my door.
I already made up my mind before she came here. If therapy worked, good. If it didn't...
To be continued....
Writer Details:Kenneth Daniella✍️
Location:Wellspring University,Edo State,Nigeria 🇳🇬.
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