It was a grey Monday,
just like every other Monday had been before it. The only difference was that by all accounts,
especially listening to my mother crying over the phone about it to my Aunt
Tracy, it was a miracle that I was alive to see this one. It was three months ago when my accident
happened, if I can even call it that. It
was more like fate. Fate that I missed
my school bus, fate that I almost died and ended up here, wherever here is, in
a scene straight out of the pages of a comic book. Scratch that, not even Stan Lee’s imagination
could have come up with something like this.
To be honest with you, I’m still not even sure if I really haven’t gone
crazy. In the dreams, or rather
nightmares, since the accident, according to my Guardian Angel who looked just
like my pet cat, Piccolo, I’m now actually seeing the worlds for what they
truly are. Who am I to disagree with a
talking cat? There’s more that happened,
but that’s the only part I care to remember from any of my dreams. The rest of my dreams, my nightmares, made it
hard to sleep at night. They were what
my great grandma would have called “the Devil’s evil,” busy dancing about and
trying to take my mind.
I tried counting all the light poles
on my side of the road on the way home from the hospital. It’s a longer ride than you’d expect, all the rain in Seattle slows things down more times than not. The entire car
ride was the embodiment of how it looked outside and how I had been feeling inside, numb. Not because
when you slip stepping out of the shower, crack your head on the toilet on the way down, and almost end
up dying on your own bathroom floor they give you get a lot of pain killers to deal with all the surgeries. No
it wasn’t that at all. It was the head injury, the damage to my prefrontal cortex from what the doctors say,
that left me feeling like this.
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