White walls. White sheets. White clothing. Same routine every day. Rather tiresome looking at the same, boring things every day. Trapped in a bed that you aren’t allowed out of. Yet they wonder why I won’t talk. They consider that maybe I simply can’t speak.
The same nurse as always sits next to my bed. She plucks the newspaper from the lamp stand and begins reading. She talks as if I’m a five year old. Says things such as, “Isn’t that amazing?” It gives me half a mind to break my silence and tell the abhorrent woman to shut her trap.
As she goes on about earthquakes and politics, I close my eyes. I miss Thomas. My first and only love. My best friend. I still remember the first time that we met. I was only six and boys were still repulsive, cootie carriers.
I pedaled my bicycle down the street, swerving in and out of the middle of the road. My mom was in the apartment unpacking her few things.
I was exploring my new neighborhood taking in the fresh smell of trees and grass. I saw a boy about my age sitting on his front porch with his head tucked into his knees, sobbing. This struck me as remarkable seeing as how boys aren’t supposed to cry, they aren’t built for that. I dropped my bicycle on the sidewalk, and cautiously tottering towards this boy.
“Why are you crying?” I asked him. “Boys aren’t supposed to cry.”
He looked up at me, his tear streaked face indignant.
