There's a dripping sound.
There's a dripping sound she isn't used to.
Which shouldn't be a particular issue, because of the bathroom sink; a neglected nozzle of the bathtub; the sink in the kitchen on a suffocatingly quiet day...
But the sound is different. The after-ring of the drip, droplet, is a more metallic, resounding sound than she's used to. It's a zinging, flat, sharp sound, a ball of water clapping against a metal- old metal sink.
Plap. Plap. Plap.
She opens her eyes.
A white, tiled ceiling stares at her, blindly; gives it's silent good morning. She blinks, and finds her eyes too heavy, and too swollen to open all the way. She squints, or tries to, and blows air through her nose when her flesh stings, crinkles at the corners of her eyes in an unpleasant way. The tiled ceiling doesn't comment on it, nor does it give her any helpful hints.
Save one. Her mind reels.
Hospice. This is a hospice. This is medical, this is surgical, what happened.
She cranes her neck, and fails, neck muscles too thin and too loose to move. She grunts, and tries again. Her neck rattles, trembles with exhaustion, exhaustion, what happened to her. She's only able to lift it an inch, before fatigue settles in and latches its claws. Her head drops, and sparks of pain shoot ragged lightning from the base of her skull. Her eyes close, and the sweet relief of not-pain has her huffing in dry humor.
Her brow furrows.
Was she run over? Did she trip? Did she fall down the stairs, even as her mother warned her to be careful? The stink of fresh gauze and vaseline and the sweet, cloying smell of anesthesia is both soothing and wretched, and she opens her eyes again. Her mother. What happened to her mother? Is she here? Is there a waiting room? Is there a doctor?
Her bones ache, her legs ache, her elbows ache. A bone-deep ache so intense it starts to feel good; she snorts again, barely a snort, and lifts her neck. She lifts it all the way, breaking out in a hot, sticky sweat, beading on her upper lip. She runs her tongue over it, and finds her bottom lip split and scabbing.
She's in a hospital room, white and cream furniture with tiled floor, no chipping. The walls are bare, with a pale, blue wallpaper with diamond shapes in tandem. No clock, no windows. White cabinets with brass handles hang on one wall; a white, tin dresser sits close to her bed; and she feels the sheets, the crisp, linen sheets under her hands and under the backs of her legs. The cabinet is so close she can see the curling designs in the molded, metallic handles. They remind her of the clawed feet under old bathtubs, when sink nozzles were square and brass.
She cannot see her body. She can feel her left arm, draped over her stomach, hard and bulky and she realizes it's in a cast. She can barely wiggle her fingers. There's a thin needle of panic ready to pierce through the thin membrane of her dignity.
There's a sound of scuffling of shoes, from somewhere behind her head. It's muffled; from behind a door. She lays her head back down, her fingers twitching from the abrupt relief of resting. She's relieved she can feel no pain in her knuckles, and no pain in her hands, hand. Her left wrist gives a dull, wet throb under her cast.
The sound becomes louder, more pronounced. Boots on a floor. The door opens, and there's a pause, soft and silent, before a man clucks his tongue. She goes rigid.
"Oh, she's awake." The boots come closer, the door closes: slides closed, gives a grating, scraping sound on its hinges, too soft and barely there. She grits her teeth, and squints her eyes as an orb of light floats in her line of vision, violent and bright, and grounded by the metal stalk of its lamp. The light is blinding, and hurts her eyes, and she squeezes them vice-tight against it, still able to see the searing-red splotches through her lids. She's reminded of a dentist's chair, but worse.
"Oh, pardon me." The orb is removed, and she blinks rapidly, eyes burning and tearing and squinting, stinging from pain; her jaw clenched and aching, her bones aching. Another voice beside the one in her head is a gentle prod to bring her back into reality, back to this, and it's a harsh prod, as rubbing at the same spot of skin over and over and it becomes red and raw and sensitive. She sniffs, and blinks rapidly, and strains her tired, blood-bursted eyes to see the face of the man who hovers over her. The water in her eyes gains in mass, and volume, and drips and rolls down her cheeks, dripping off her chin.
Plip. Plip. Plip.
"No no no, please don't cry." The voice is so gentle, so soothing. She sniffs again, and balls her free hand into a fist. There's another scraping sound, and a high and soft whimper comes from her throat, as she sinks into the hospital bed and the smooth, soft sheets for a sense of safety. The man's face comes closer, becomes lines and creases and shapes, and a man with soft, brownish hair and a strong, square jaw smiles down at her. She swallows heavily, opening her eyes as wide as they could go. High cheekbones, watery, oval eyes. Subdued mustache over his upper lip.
"...w-ho-" She can't speak; her voice cracks, and rattles in her throat. She clears it, gathers a clump of phlegm instead, tries to clear it again. Her face warps into a grimace of disgust and wide-eyed panic. The man clucks, shaking his head in a very slow show of pity. "Now, now, be mindful. You are still very weak." There's a kerchief in his hands as he reaches for her, as he reaches to dab at the drops of wetness at her cheeks. Despite his voice, and despite his touch, she flinches, exhaling sharply through her teeth, and he clucks again when her bones force her away from the gentle touch.
"I won't hurt you," he soothes, in practiced, dulcet tones. He dabs at her cheeks, and she remains still. "I took an oath, as a doctor, to never harm my patients." He huffs, and his smile widens, becomes genuine. He has a dimple on each cheek. "Even as a plastic surgeon. A doctor is a doctor." He blots the tender areas under her eyes, her bottom eyelids, ever so mindful to not poke her, and she stares at him. She blinks when he's done, her eyes dry and burning. She swallows again, heavily and pointed.
"... water?" It's forced, and barely mouthed. It comes out as more of a whisper, but it's a word.
His smile turns into a grin, and he tucks the kerchief in his breast pocket. He's wearing the atypical white jacket of a doctor, buttoned to his neck with shiny, brass buttons. It's old-fashioned, because it wraps around his neck in a protective turtleneck, nearly up to his chin. "Right away." He pats her hand, her free hand, in a comforting gesture, and it works because that wound-tight vice in her gut loosens, just a fraction.
He leaves shortly after that, and she wishes she didn't ask for water, so he could've stayed.
He only left to find a glass, and his boots make the scuffling sound, and the door makes it sliding-closed scraping sound. And there's a sink behind her, near the blinding light on the metal stalk, because she can hear the pipe-rattling creak of a faucet, of an old faucet, and the sound of running water has her eyes burning, and her throat stinging, and her tongue drying like an old husk in her mouth. She smacks her lips, and a sudden creak of a mechanical sound shifts her chair, sharply, and she can't stop the high, breathy shriek when it jerks forward, bent in half. She's sitting up, and her cast rests in her lap. "Oh, I'm sorry! Goodness sake, I'm terrible at this."
She can see her feet, scraped and nicked, and cleaned and bare. She wiggles her toes.
A glass of water is put in her line of vision, and she instinctively reaches for it. It wobbles in her unbroken hand, and nearly splashes over the rim, but she does manage to bring it to her lips. She sips it, and sighs, softly.
The man's face is closer and smiling with genuine apology as he reclaims his chair. He threads his fingers together, and sets them in his lap. His hands look chapped, rubbed raw and left to heal, prickling and ragged. She looks up at his face, instead.
"You have a broken arm." She nods her head. He talks slowly, and mouths over each word, staring at her intently. She alternates between watching his mouth, and looking at his eyes. "You have two muscles torn in your left wrist, so it will be a while before you can use it again. You have had head trauma, and a deep laceration across your scalp. You won't need to worry about scarring, because, it is at the back of your head. Your hair will cover it." He waves his hand, as if to chase away any worries of potential vanity. She has none.
She has a lot of hair. She sips her water.
"Do you remember what happened?" He asks it in a soft voice, eyes gentle and endearing. A lump forms thick and sudden at the back of her throat; she sips her drink to clear it. It helps. She drinks, and swallows a mouthful.
"... no." She doesn't remember what happened. She wasn't run over, she didn't trip, she didn't hit a door or fall down the stairs. She didn't pick a fight, she didn't get stuck in an accident. She shakes her head in the negative, and winces when her head throbs. A pinpoint of ice forms between her brows, and settles in her temples. She huffs through her nose. "I- remember waking up." Talking. "I don't remember what happened. What happened?"
His smile thins, becomes a frown, but the comforting, concerned look in his eyes never falters, and she very nearly swoons at the competence of this doctor. He's very good at his bedside manner, or she's very easy, and the corner of her lip quirks up, in a straining mimic of his formerly-cheery expression.
"... we're not sure. We found you, or, one of my nurses found you-" His frown deepens. "In your condition, in the Medical Pavilion. She said she found your body purposely hidden in the plants." He pauses when her face becomes too pale, too white. She sips her water. She breathes through her mouth, slow and practiced.
Stuck in the plants.
She did get in a fight.
"I don't know what happened," she mutters. It's all she can say, because it's the truth. She stares at her water, lips pursed, blinking tired, swollen eyes. She wiggles the fingers stuck in the cast, tries to tap her fingerpads together.
"We believe it was purposely," he continues, in that slow, measured tone one takes when talking to an abused animal. "-Because of how it was done. It's not the first time something like this has happened, though they are rare. I would call the authorities, Miss, and tell them everything I knew about this instance, if I was in your place." He holds out his ragged, bitten hands, palms open, in a meaningful gesture. He smiles gently. "We've prepared a bed for you, here, for as long as you'd like, until you recover. And I mean recover." His eyebrows rise. "You're welcome to keep a radio, but I'm afraid television is still a new commodity here." He huffs a laugh.
She stares at him.
Television as a new commodity?
Radio?
She opens her mouth; she closes her mouth. He smiles at her. Her face prickles in a flush. "M-may I have a newspaper?" New commodity. His smile widens, and his dimples deepen.
"Of course. And more water, yes. You must be hungry, too." He stands, brushing the seat of his rear in an absent gesture. He smiles down at her, once more, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a charming expression. She finds herself smiling back, even if it pulls painfully at the tender skin of her face. "My nurses will take you to the new room. This was just a waiting room."
… waiting room, her mother –
"Again, you're welcome to books, a radio, newspaper, anything to keep you safe and calm until your wounds have healed enough to be without pain. We have sedatives to help the process along if it becomes too unbearable. If you have need of me, just ask any of the nurses for Dr. Steinman. Business has been slow lately, but I have a feeling it'll pick up." He winks.
She makes no gesture, save a mechanical smile, as he turns and leaves, and she hears the sliding-closed sound of the door as it shuts.
She sips her water.
Plap.
Plap.
Plap.