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“Why does it feel like you know something I don’t? Are you keeping secrets from me?”
“Oh, honey,” he drawls out for effect. “Your eyes maybe open, but you’re yet to wake up.”
Glancing around the room, frowning, I wonder if Trent is on drugs. He’s certainly acting very strange lately.
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“You’ll see, baby. You’ll see.”
I shake my head and watch as he plays with his phone, scrolling through whatever posts he’s looking through on social media. My attention soon turns to the blue sky outside, and I wonder when I will get out of here. I’m not used to this. I’ve gone from one hundred miles per hour to my brakes screeching to a shuddering halt. My stomach often churns into a ball of anxiety, my impatience getting the better of me. The anxiety morphs into a depression that I can’t quite put my finger on. A depression from feeling a loss that I don’t quite comprehend or understand. By day, my head paces, restless in its frustration at wanting to get better quicker. By night, loneliness takes over, my sense of loss overwhelming me. It’s gotten to a stage where I brought it up to the doctor on one of his rounds, my anxiety getting the better of me, worrying I might be having some sort of mental breakdown. He assured me that this was normal in coma patients, which, despite the knowledge that I have become a statistic, puts me at ease somewhat. In any case, I have also been assigned to have a psychological assessment, which only adds to the long list of my aids to recovery.
“This woman is going out of control. First, she stops posting for a full month, then she starts posting twice, maybe three times a day, all showing herself off like she’s some queen bee.”
My head snaps from the window, realizing in that moment that I’ve been lost in my own thoughts yet again. Confusion shrouds me as my eyes find Trent, who’s still furiously scrolling through his phone.
“I’m sorry, what?” I ask, not fully comprehending what this is about.
Finally, Trent’s attention is off his phone as his head snaps up. “Kendra Banks.”
Pursing my lips, I shake my head. “You’re becoming obsessed with all this.” I let out a frustrated sigh, as every time Trent visits it’s either Eli Prescott or Kendra Banks that he brings into the conversation nonstop. We could be talking about tomatoes, and he would somehow bring Kendra into the conversation by stating, “Kendra doesn’t like tomatoes. She says they make her fat.” Well, it seems fresh air makes this woman feel fat, so tomatoes are no surprise. I have come to seriously dislike the woman and I have no idea why. I have never been one to hold a grudge against someone, or feel such hatred, and yet whenever he brings her up my cheeks begin to flame with an anger I do not understand. This, among other details, adds to said anxiety.
On his feet, Trent stalks towards my bed, his phone outstretched towards me so I can see the barrage of photographs. In one photo, Kendra Banks poses with her lips pouting like she’s blowing a kiss, her blonde hair flowing in natural silky waves down past her breasts, barely covering the nipples nearly on display. Further up, there’s a photo where she’s grabbing onto non-existent fat exclaiming that she needs to get into shape after a period of “letting herself go.”
Photo after photo and post after post running through my head and only aiding to make a deep-seated ache form behind my eyes.
“This one hasn’t done her any favors,” Trent exclaims, pointing his thumb to the photo of her grabbing at her stomach. “You can imagine all the comments on this. There’s hardly anything of her and yet she’s calling herself fat.” He sucks air through his teeth as he shakes his head in disgust; meanwhile, my head seems to be thumping to levels I have never experienced.
“Trent, can you go get the doctor? I’m not feeling too great.”
Panic forms in Trent’s eyes as he bounces on his feet, immediately rushing for the door, leaving me with a pounding head and an ache in my heart that I do not understand.
