|
SubscriptionsSites I Read
|
|
|
|
| "Ashton, your parents are here, wake up," a heavy voice came from the distant doorway. It was the day nurse, Clairessa. Every morning, no later than six thirty, she would come in. She would tell me to get up. I would nod my head from under my covers, and pretend to listen.
Clairessa was a plump black woman, with short permed hair, and pink nurse scrubs. I was more fond of her than the other day nurses. Hell, I liked her more than most of the nurses period. Except that she always wore a simple silver cross, on a little silver chain. It almost looked too small around her chubby neck. How on earth it stayed together was beyond me. The chain looked as if someone glanced at it the wrong way, it would break. I hated that she wore the symbol of some stupid religion. It made no sense. But every day, without any doubt she would wake me up, and wear that cross.
Clairessa headed out of my room, continuing on to the next room. She was given the stenuious task of waking up the patients on the west side of the permanent care unit on floor six. My room was second to last on the floor. I could already hear heavy footsteps against linoleum floor.
"Ashton, hurry up," I heard her voice again, as she passed my room once more, on the way to the nurse's station.
Today I was exhausted. I felt like doing absolutely nothing: I was still in bed two minutes after Clairessa's second warning. I stayed still under the covers, even when I needed to piss. My arm was falling asleep under the pressure from my head, but I didn't care. I was so drained. I was so tired of all the mundane tasks, the endless monotony. My routine didn't very much that of a prisoner: get up, get dressed, eat, see a doctor, stare a some debris in the air, eat, sleep, and do it all over again. My life was the epitome of repetition.
Up until I was five, I thought it was just a game. I had to stay inside a glass bubble, eat what the doctors told me to, sleep when my parents told me to, and then I got to do whatever I wanted. There was toys and televsion; I thought I was set.
"What's it like outside daddy? Hey, you know, it gets cold and hot outside, daddy! Maybe we can go outside? I think that's so cool. I never go out there!" I was five, and curious. I was on top of the world, ready for new things. Just that year alone, I had gotten an x-ray, and built a house out of legos. There was more to be discovered, so much I had yet to experience. There was a world outside my own, and the more I learned, the more I was determined to see it.
Back then, my father was the stone god that allowed me any right, who played with me on the other side of the glass. He was my hero, my savior. Surely he wouldn't deny another adventure as grand as this. He would praise my broad intellect and sweep me away as we explored the external world. But there would be no expeditions, there would be no adventures. My body chemistry was different. My immune system was compromised. There is no immune system to speak of. It was like leukemia, without the cancer. A common cold could annihilate me. There were no more dreams of flying a jet plane. Aspirations of searching the Amazon for new life would never come true.
When my dad had told me the truth for the very first time, he looked me square in the eye, and let the words spill from his mouth. His expression was so broken and helpless. He had been standing while he spoke but after he finished, all of a sudden he needed a chair. He regretted the lies. He had agonized when the time would come to tell me of my irrevocable fate.
I was five back then, but I wasn't stupid. And i wasn't surprised much either; I had suspected it. My parents couldn't hold me or touch me, they communiated through a glass wall. The families on tv had group hugs, and whenever a kid got excieted they would run out of the house. There were so much that went unexplained. But now the truth was out. It was because I diseased, because I was flawed. I sunk into my bed, staring at the man who informed me of my destiny. I never looked away, never flinched. My father looked right back. His eyes were so small and frail; for once the mighty stone God looked scared in his own shoes.
We must have thought the same thing.
How could you let me live like this?
* * *
"Ashton, you have to learn to get up."
My mother had walked in into my room, making noises with her purse and keys as she set them down somewhere. I could make out the outline of her blonde hair pulled lightly up into a ponytail. I could make out the man who shadowed her. His head towered over hers, and moved out of the way; my dad. Standing next to one another you could see the difference between hieghts. I was glad I took after my father. Tall, and lean, as opposed to short, and rail-skinny. I guess I couldn't complain about what I had inhearieted from my mother though: blue eyes, light olive skin. I was told repeatidly how "stunning" they are. But I'm not bragging. Of course not.
"Sorry mom, I was out late at this crazy party. It was so insane. Outside and everything. Fucking brillant to blood dope. Fantastic," I turned a little in my bed, pulling the coveres off my torso, "I'm just tired, chill out." I had opened my eyes just barely until now. I could tell it was bright out, from the light that slithered past my eyelids. But now that my eyes were open the room spun a bit, shouted at me, obnoxious stage lights were focused right on my face, stung my eyes. My parents glared.
"Don't talk to me like that," my mother shook her finger in my direction. Her face was angry, and hurt.
Whatever. You don't have to live in this bubble. This prison.
Whenever the chance presented itself, I liked to remind my parents of that; their choice to send me into a prison of solitude for the rest of my shortened life. I liked to remind them of the utter mistake of it all. To shove me in a box, and watch me grow with no other companion but my dick and their faces. Harsh? Not really.
After a while of contsant nagging, and whinning, and complaining, my mother went off to talk to the nurse, and get my breakfast. Getting my food had always been her thing. I didn't really know why; perhaps she went because she wanted whatever little control should could find. Control me in whatever little way she could. In that time, my father usually talked to me.
"Ashton, you have to stop that. You're mother has gone through a lot. She just wants you happy," His soft green eyes met mine; they were trying to act persuading. They weren't ding so well.
"She wants to see me happy, eh? Now? Has it ever occured to you, that maybe I'd be happy if I were de-" he cut me off.
"I should talk to the doctor. See if he'll up your antidepressants," he suggested thoughtfully.
"No amount of antidepressants are going to make me feel any better! While other kids are learning how to drive, I'm learning how to not catch a cold," I got up from my bed, and came to the very end of the bubble. My dad was seated right by the door.
"You think it's fair, Ashton, that you treat your mother like shit?" He stood up now, looking down at me. His face was above mine, his brow knit so close together, he looked like he was going to bash the glass in front of him, and choke me. Even so, I was too pissed off to even give a shit.
"I think it's fair to say I've got no reason to live, and that keeping me in this prison, is just going to drive me insane," I retaliated, "You should have eneded it, when you found they you weren't a donor." My dad took his seat, and linked his fingers together.
"I'm upping the antidepressants," he said smoothly.
"Glad you're listening." I slipped into channel that led to the bathroom. I really needed to piss.
"What happened, where's Ashton?"
"Nothing, Caroline. He's in the bathroom."
 
| | |
|
