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2016-01-10 15:16:46 Post No. 7567248
Post No. 7567248
I wrote all night. What do you guys think of my opening?
It began like a fever dream. Objects would seemingly move on their own and appear in the oddest of locations. My first discovery was the television remote deposited unceremoniously into the kitchen toaster. On more than one occasion I found assorted fruit tumbling about in the washing machine, bed sheets hung from the ceiling fan, and pillows in the refrigerator. It continued slowly, new objects found suspiciously out of place, and then with unnerving frequency. Even my own school lunch wasn’t secure, and imagine the look on the other kids’ faces when I produced a slightly worn tennis shoe from the brown paper sack in place of a sandwich. That’s when I knew it was her.
My mother had been lead off by the nurses, and I was relegated to the waiting room, sat beneath the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights with my hands in my lap. At twelve years old I wasn’t considered mature enough to handle what they would tell her in her hospital room. But I knew. They would tell her what I had always known—that I was losing her. Not in a physical sense, she wasn’t dying, but she was leaving none the less. Her mind was slipping.
Several people sat morose in the plastic chairs of the waiting room, punctuating the silence with an occasional hacking cough. It had a stillness only a hospital could, damaged people waiting for acknowledgment of their pain, if not a cure. It was granted only by a woman infrequently swinging open a door and confirming that they indeed did exist by reading their name from a clipboard. It was always spoken with a dulness.
It continued on like that for what seemed like an hour, watching each person pass silently through the door and the nurse close it behind them. There were no windows in the waiting room, and I couldn’t decipher how late it was. We had arrived by an ambulance just after I got home from school that afternoon. I found her sprawled across the kitchen floor, broken glass and a bit of blood dotted across the linoleum. Along with her mind she had lost her balance.
The wooden door, a small window near its center, again swung open. But instead of a nurse, a man appeared. He was tan, and not dressed like a doctor, but wearing a pressed blue suit with a thin black tie.