AllFreeNovel
Share Us
"You can skip it," I manage. "I'm fine."
"Oh, it's okay. We want to help you feel relaxed."
She pats my hand, and I grit my teeth so I don't recoil. It's not long before the room gets blurry and I feel all numb and heavy. The team comes into my room, and somehow, I sit up.
"I need a marker."
"What?" the anesthesiologist asks.
"I need a marker. To write stuff...on my arm." The words slur.
I can't write because this stuff makes me shake. But I try.
MILLER.
Maybe when I wake back up…I'll find out what it means.
Four
Ezra
“Mr. Masters, you’re going to have to stop resisting. Do you know where you are?”
I’m not resisting. I’m crying.
My arms… Oh God.
“Get this shit off!”
I’m trying to rip it all off. Then I’m getting sick. There’s people all around me, wiping, whispering, holding my shoulders.
Someone’s handing me a small cup of ice. My arm’s out. How did my arm get out of the strap?
“I want to go home.” My voice is a moan. Embarrassing.
“It’s okay,” one of the nurses tells me. “It’s okay if you’re emotional. It’s just the treatment.”
“Where’s my mom?” I rasp out.
“She’s been delayed, unfortunately. She called to let us know she’s had car trouble.”
I wipe my face. “Can I have my other arm please?” It’s a whimper.
“Yeah. I think that should be okay.” She sounds chipper. “We gave you some Valium, so you’re calmer now. We had to put you in restraints.”
I look at my arm—at the black word at the inside of my elbow. “Why is that there?”
“The writing? I don’t know.” She looks thoughtful. “You seem to come in with it every time.”
“What does it mean?” My throat’s sore, and so it hurts to ask that. But it seems important to find out the answer.
“I don’t know. You’ve asked before.”
“Oh fuck.” I’m getting sick again. Someone is holding a small trash bag. Someone says, “We’re pushing a bit of Zofran as a top off dose.”
The needle stings. My eyes are wet. I can’t stop shaking.
“Let’s get you a warm blanket.”
I cover my face with my arm, the marker-scrawled MILLER at the inside of my elbow pressed to my mouth.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
My throat stings so bad. My eyes won’t stop leaking.
Katz and the anesthesiologist come talk to me. They’re all nice. Wet rag on my head. Somebody gives me Chapstick. I can’t put it on because my hands are shaky.
“You’re doing a good job,” says the nurse as she swipes it over my cracked lips. “You’ll feel better.”
“My head hurts.”
I drink water out of a paper cup and take something for the headache.
“I want to go home.” I sound like I’m whimpering again, but my chest feels tight. I feel weird. “I want to go home. I don’t like being in here.”
One of the nurses helps me sit up. Another one joins her, and they help me into a wheelchair. “We know you don’t like small spaces. How about I push you to the waiting room?” one of them asks.
The waiting room is bright and sunny. There’s a door that leads to the steps outside. The door is shiny wood, with lots of little windows all down the sides. I look out the windows. My body aches like I just played a football game.
Could I get out of the chair? Would my legs hold me?
I look at my arm and tears sting my eyes.
Why do I feel so miserable? Like…agonized.
I check in my pocket. Wallet. I rub at the marker on my inner arm.
Where is my mom?
Why am I here?
Who…or what is MILLER?
I look at the check-in desk. Nobody back there.
I look at the door to the tile stairs that lead to outside—its windows streaming slats of sunlight over the rug.
I stand up. Hold onto the chair. A woman in a pink shirt, reading Women’s Day magazine, blinks up at me.
I look at the check-in again. Then I walk out the door and down the stairs and start into the field beside the building.
Ezra
January 4, 2019
I’m in the laundry room when I feel someone move behind me. “You got the hang of these things?”
I flinch, but it’s just Amelia—the short, slim, gray-haired lady who runs this place. She moves closer to me but gives me my space, resting her palm atop one of the ancient washing machines.
“Sometimes they stick,” she says, touching the coin insert slot on one of them.
I nod, trying to look capable. “I’ve got it.”
I move my clothes from the washer into the dryer, and I think she takes a small step back, probably not wanting to crowd me.
“Just checking in on ya. You have any needs today? The on-call doctor will be here in about an hour. There’s a sign-up in the common room.”
She doesn’t push about it, and I’m glad.
“I think I’m good. Thank you.”
