Making a new book. Can't continue others for a while, people seem to want to report mine. So here's an original. Enjoy.
I haven't always been this troubled. The day my mother was murdered, I just broke down. My father left when we were born. By we, I mean my brother Dawson and me. Dawson was three years older than me. I was healthy, just fine. But Dawson, there was something wrong with that one. He had something wrong with his mind, some kind of anger related mental issues. We never knew why, we had a fine life. He had to take special medicine. But when he reached twelve, and by then I was nine, he figured, why take the medicine? He trashed his pills and became even more insane. Mother and I had to huddle in her room, locking the door, keeping with us kitchen knives, a hammer, anything we could get to protect ourselves with. Dawson went into rages, banging on the door. We feared for our lives. He could have killed us. This went on for months. Only six months, but it seemed like forever. And finally, he did it.
My mother came home from work, expecting us both to be home from school, I from mine and Dawson from his "special" school, in an hour. But Dawson was waiting. He'd somehow got a gun. He shot my mother, and killed her. When I got home, I saw her, dead, in her room, laying on the bed. Dawson sprung on me, and shot me in my shoulder with a pistol. I screamed, and fell. I pretended to be dead, bushing my breaths, keeping my eyes looking dead when he looked at me. Dawson fell for it. He walked out of the room, and when I was sure he was out, I locked the door and got my cellphone out of my back pocket. I called police, telling the situation. They were on their way. But Dawson had found out, just then. He banged on the door, screaming. He kept firing bullets at the door, then punched his hand through a hole. He reached, trying to find a grasp of something. He fired the pistol a few more times, one nearly hit my arm, but I ran around the bed, crawling under it. My brother was still screaming. I was bawling, crying my eyes out.
I soon heard footsteps coming from inside the room. I was afraid Dawson had gotten in, but he was screaming still. I realized the sound of blaring sirens, just then. The click of handcuffs. A police officer bent over and peered at me. He said something, but I did not know what. I was so stressed, I still heard the ringing screams in my ears, the firing of the pistol. I fainted, right after I felt the man take me and pick me up from under the bed.
When I woke up, I couldn't feel my arm. It was in a sling, bandaged, the bullet removed. I clicked my teeth, but heard no click. My eyes landed on my hand. A needle was inserted, hooked to an intravenous therapy machine thing. My eyes were still puffed from crying, so I figured it hadn't been long that I was out. I stared at the hospital window. The blinds blocked most light, but a little seeped through the cracks. I stared at it for a few minutes, when someone tapped my shoulder. It was a nurse. She mouthed something to me. I tried to ask what, but I couldn't hear the words I wanted to say. I could no longer speak. The nurse mouthed more to me, and I shrugged. I tapped my ear with a finger. The nurse's eyes widened. She stood and left, soon reappearing with a doctor. I read his nametag. Dr. Sands. He had an instrument in his hand. I kept still as he placed it gently into each of my ears, checking them. He removed the thing, and put it aside. He said something to his nurse.
The nurse again left and reappeared, and handed something to the doctor. It was a mask. He hooked it into the wall. He put it in front of my face. He gave a thumbs up sign, with a raised brow. I gave him a thumb back, and he placed the mask onto face. It only covered my nose and mouth. I breathed in once, twice, and I was out again.
The second time I woke up, my mask was off, but the I.V was still in the vein in my hand. The doctor was sitting on a stool beside the hospital bed. He jotted something on a clipboard, and showed it to me. The words written were YOU'RE DEAF. I reached for his pen. He gave it to me, and I wrote HOW? Dr. Sands saw it and we exchanged the pen and paper in a conversation.
MUST HAVE BEEN THE STATE OF THE SCENE YOU WERE IN.
OH. WHAT NOW?
FOSTER PARENTS, OR ADOPTION.
HOW WILL I TALK?
YOU CAN'T. YOU CAN WRITE LIKE THIS OR LEARN SIGN LANGUAGE.
OKAY. WHEN CAN I LEAVE HERE?
AFTER YOUR ARM HEALS. IN A FEW DAYS, WITH MEDICINE.
OKAY, IS THERE ANYONE WHO WILL TAKE ME IN FOR NOW?
ADOPTION CENTER, PROBABLY.
OKAY.
TAKE YOUR MEDICINE AFTER YOU EAT. WHAT DO YOU WANT?
IS THERE SOUP? MY THROAT HURTS. AND SOME JUICE?
YES. WHAT KIND? APPLE? GRAPE?
EITHER.
OKAY. TAKE YOUR PILL WITH YOUR JUICE. DO YOU NEED HELP EATING.
NOT IF ITS ON A TRAY THEN I CAN JUST USE MY OTHER HAND TO EAT.
OK.
OK.
I trusted this doctor. He was nice. In ten minutes, I was set up with my soup and Apple juice. I began to eat. The chicken soup was steaming hot, and when I brought the spoon to my mouth for the fifth bite, it spilled onto the arm with the sling. It seeped through, burning my arm. I tried to say OW, but it must of sounded like a bleating goat, because a nurse that was close rushed in. She took my plate and set it aside. She cleaned me up, replacing the wet sling with a new one. I looked at my shoulder. A cloth bandage was a reddish brown, stained with dried blood. I waved at the nurse and pointed. She nodded. She took it off and began to get a new one. While she was doing that, I looked at the wound. The hole was deep, but the bottom was scabbed over. It looked weird, and I reached to touch it. The nurse pulled hand away gently. She signed with her hand not to touch it. I brought my hand down. The nurse dipped a cotton ball into a liquid, and cleansed my wound with it. It stung, and I scrunched up my face, but didn't complain. She put the patch on my shoulder, then put my arm up into a sling. I drew my index finger to my thumb and waved them around to look like I was writing in the air. She understood and let's write on the clipboard.
WHAT WAS THAT? I wrote. She wrote back.
DISINFECTANT.
OH OKAY.
WANT ME TO TAKE YOUR PLATE?
MY PILL. I NEED TO TAKE THE PILL.
OKAY.
She gave me the pill and I swallowed it with juice. I gave the nurse a thumbs left, taking the trash and leaving me my juice. I took a sip and lay back. I fell asleep.