Ruin (3 page)

Maybell

Beeps.

Alarm clocks going off in my head.

My hand swats at the nightstand, but I miss.

No matter how many times I try, I miss.

Someone grabs my hand. Squeezes tight. Releases me.

My arm feels so weak I can barely move it. I’ve never been this tired in my life.

Especially considering I’m supposed to wake up.

Right?

That’s why my alarm clock is beeping.

But the more I think about it, the more I start to realize I never got into bed, so how could I be in there now?

I take a breath, and my lungs feel so tight and painful, it makes me cough.

“Take it easy,” a guy nearby me says.

A guy. Funny. I never bring guys back home.

Wait, what?

I force my eyes to open, and through tiny slits, I see a blond, shorthaired dude walking next to me, his hands on the rails of my bed. But I don’t have any rails on my bed.

With skittish eyes, I check my surroundings, only to discover I’m not in my room at all.

I’m not even home.

“Where …” I mutter, but my voice is clamped.

“Hi, Maybell?” The guy next to me looks me directly in the eye. “You’re at the hospital.”

Hospital.

That place where the sick get treated and the wounded are mended.

That place I only ever visited to see my grandma after her surgery, and even then, I shivered at the sight of the building.

The place where people’s hopes are lost and dreams have to be rebuilt.

The place I now am.

“Hospital?” I repeat, trying to understand.

“Yes, you’re in the hospital,” the guy says.

I swallow, but my sore throat won’t let me, and I cough up the slime. My body feels cold and not like mine as the guy pushes my bed through the white-walled hallways, bright lights blinding me every five seconds as all I can do is stare up at the ceiling.

That’s when I realize I’m strapped tight.

“What happened?”

He frowns and rubs his lips together as we go into a different room. “You were in an accident.”

Accident.

The word echoes over and over in my ears, but it doesn’t register.

Tears well up in my eyes. “Accident?”

I don’t remember anything.

Why don’t I remember? Why am I even here?

“Yes, you drove your car into a wall.”

My eyes widen. “What?”

“You don’t remember?”

“No.” The tight strap cuts into my skin as I try to move.

Then a sharp pain runs through my lower leg, so sharp it makes me scream.

“Don’t move,” he says, placing a hand over mine. “You don’t wanna make it worse.”

“Make
what
worse?” I flinch, and the pain shoots through my leg again. “Oh God, that hurt,” I cry out, clutching the metal railing.

“I’ve given you some morphine, but it won’t block out the pain completely. You’re gonna start to feel more once the adrenaline leaves your body. It may not be as comfortable, but we’re going to do our best, okay? If you need any more painkillers, just shout.”

“Adrenaline … morphine … accident … doing his best …” I repeat to myself, almost as if it will help me process this faster.

But it doesn’t. It’s all one giant messy bundle in my head.

And all of it has just begun to unravel.

I remember swerving on the road … then a flash of light.

And then came the pain. Intense pain.

That’s all I remember.

First, there was the book I read in the library and the failed dance. Then, there was the drive back home … and nothing after that. No matter how many times I try to remember, all I do is draw blanks.

“Why don’t I remember?” I mutter.

“You crashed pretty hard,” the guy says, as he wheels me below a big lamp. “You were out of it for some time too.” He talks to a guy behind a small cubicle who then shouts at me through the intercom. “Stay still.”

Stay still.

Just like a dog when it’s getting a shot.

Tied to this bed, my body starts to shiver, and I can no longer stop the tears from running.

I don’t know why.

I rarely ever cry, but now, I can’t stop.

My heart beats in my throat as the guy comes back and drives me out of the room again.

“What was that?” I ask.

“We had to take an X-ray.”

“An X-ray? For what? Of?” I mutter.

“Your leg.”

I open my mouth but close it again. I want to ask him a question, but I’m too afraid of the answer. Too afraid of what it might mean.

My leg.

If they had to take an X-ray.

If it hurts as much as it does.

What happened to it?

What happened to me?

I can’t remember anything … except for the pain. Whenever my muscles twitch, I feel it again, and I cry out in pain.

God, the pain.

It’s unlike anything I’ve ever felt.

“Here we are,” he says, driving me into a small cubicle. He pulls off the straps that had me tied down so I can finally rub away the itch on my arm.

He clears his throat. “The doctor will be right with you. Do you need me to do anything for you? Do you need extra painkillers?”

“Can I get my phone? I wanna call my parents.”

His face turns bleak as he says, “I’m sorry, but I don’t know where it is. Maybe the firefighters still have your bag. They’ll probably drop it off at the front desk if they found it. I can check later.”

“Firemen …” Oh, my God. I look at him, biting my lip. “Is it that bad?”

He nods and rubs his lips. “But the nurse has already called your parents, so they’re on their way here.”

“Oh … okay. Right.” I nod, the words not really registering.

I try to remember, I really do.

But how am I supposed to remember anything when I just found out I was in a potentially life-threatening accident? And I don’t know what happened to my leg?

I take a quick look only to regret it instantly.

A splint is attached, and my leg is completely wrapped up to keep it locked in place. I can’t even move it.

And above all … I just realized I have to pee.

God, can this be any worse timing?

I sigh and shake my head.

“So you all right?” the guy says.

“No …” I laugh it off as a joke, but it isn’t funny.

“Well, if you need anything, just call out. There’s a nurse around the corner.” He holds out his hand. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.” We shake hands, and he leaves.

He must be a paramedic. One of the guys who scraped me off the ground.

I wonder what they thought when they saw me. How much work it took them to save me. If
he’s
the one who saved me.

I never even asked for his name.

I look at my hands and see the bruises on my skin, wondering where they were when I hit that wall he was talking about. I don’t remember a thing.

My mind feels jumbled, completely shaken up.

I must’ve had a concussion or something. Or maybe I was just really out of it.

The pain in my leg is beginning to worsen, and I wonder if it’s because the natural chemicals in my body are returning to normal or if it’s because the painkillers have worn off.

My neck feels sweaty, and my eyes sting, but none of it bothers me as much as the look on the doctor’s face as he enters the room.

“Hi … Maybell, right?” he says as he holds out his hand. “Dr. Miller.”

He grabs a stool and sits down beside me, giving me that I-have-some-bad-news-for-you-but-I’m-gonna-do-my-best-to-fix-you smile that doctors always give you when they know you’re fucked.

I sit up for the first time since the accident.

“Wow, don’t push yourself too much,” he says, but I ignore his advice.

I want to sit up straight when he talks to me, like a normal human being. I want to be able to look him in the eye when he tells me what he saw on the picture they made.

So I say, “I’m fine.”

He nods, still frowning, and clears his throat. “Right. So … tell me what happened.”

What happened.

He wants
me
to tell
him
?

I stare at my leg and blink a couple of times, but no matter how long I stare at it, nothing comes back. Except for the pain.

“I don’t know.” I turn my head toward him. “Do you?”

The left side of his lip twitches. “Well, the paramedics told me you drove your car into a wall.”

“Yeah … that’s what they said.” I squeeze my thumbs together nervously. It always calms me down, even if it’s only for a little bit. Makes me feel safe when I’m not.

“You were out for quite a bit …” he mutters. “How do you feel now?”

“How do I feel? I don’t know. In pain, I guess.” I shake my head and laugh it off, even when it’s not funny. It’s not even remotely funny, but I still do it. Maybe because I’m too nervous not to. I always laugh like an idiot when I’m not supposed to.

Luckily, the doctor doesn’t pay attention to it. “Do you still feel lightheaded? Nauseous?”

“Not lightheaded. But a bit nauseous, yeah.”

He holds up a couple of fingers. “Tell me how many I’m holding up.”

I roll my eyes. “Four.”

I laugh again, and so does he. “Obviously.” He scoots closer and holds up a small, pencil-shaped light, shining it into my eyes. “Open your eyes for me.” Then he clicks it off again and tucks it away. “Seems good. Well, except for your leg, of course.”

“Why does it hurt so much?” I ask.

“The morphine must be wearing off. But we’ll take care of that. First thing’s first.” He entwines his fingers, and all of a sudden, the look on his face gets so serious, it makes my heart beat faster. “I’ve looked at your X-ray, and it doesn’t look good.”

I’ve never squished my thumbs this hard in my hand.

“The good news is … you’re still alive. And we can fix this,” he says, nodding at my leg.

“Right. And the bad news?”

“The tibia bone and plateau, your lower leg, were shattered during the crash.”

Shattered.

Bone.

It suddenly feels like the temperature has dropped by a hundred degrees because all the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

“The damage is too severe to set it with a cast, so we’ll need to perform surgery. Our orthopedic surgeon, Dr. Hamford, will be performing it.”

“Surgery?” I repeat, the word almost stuck in my throat.

“Yes. You’ll need a plate and screws. The bone is too splintered to be able to regenerate on its own in the proper position.”

Plate and screws.

He talks about it like it’s something he does every day.

He probably actually does.

But this isn’t normal for me.

This isn’t how this day was supposed to go.

I was supposed to go home and read another book, play some video games, and relax for a bit after a stressful day. I
needed
that.

I wasn’t supposed to crash.

It wasn’t supposed to happen.

Yet it did.

I fucking had an accident, and now, my leg is broken … and it hurts like a motherfucker.

But no matter how many times I talk to myself in my head, I still find this news hard to grasp. I’m only nineteen. This wasn’t supposed to happen to me.

It’s hard to take in because, in reality, I don’t want to be here. Nobody does. No one wants to be told something happened to them of which they have no recollection.

Nobody wants to wake up on a stretcher being wheeled into the hospital with a leg that doesn’t work anymore.

I can’t. I just can’t let it sink in. My mind is a warrior; it refuses to give in to the truth.

It feels like the air is trapped in my throat.

I can’t breathe.

But he keeps talking.

Each word another blow to my very soul.

“Do you play sports?” he asks.

I shake my head. Too late do I realize that’s a lie. I dance. I love dancing. It’s all I ever do. Well, that, and writing, and gaming, and reading. And dancing … is technically a sport.

“I—”

The doctor interrupts me.

I’m too late.

“Well, I’m glad because if you were, I’d have to tell you that this injury would stop you from ever playing sports professionally. It’d mean the end of your career.”

The end of my career.

He says with an awkward, short, fading smile.

Fading away … just like me.

Maybell

Before

As I listen to music and happily type away on my keyboard, my mom suddenly barges into my room. I quickly take off my headphones and press save, but I can’t minimize the document quickly enough before she’s already spotted it.

She lowers the papers she’s holding in her hand and frowns. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, nothing. Just scribbling,” I say, shrugging it off as I give her a sweet smile.

She raises her brow. “You were writing those books again, weren’t you? Don’t lie.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine, yes, I was.”

She shakes her head and sighs, and I can just feel the disappoint dripping off her. “You know you can’t build a career on that.”

“It’s just a hobby,” I say.

“You know as well as I do how much you love those stories.” She points at my computer as if it’s some kind of bad voodoo.