The first thing he sees when he comes to are bright overhead lights. In the midst of chaos - the shouting, the mechanical beeps and people touching him in places that hurt - he finds solstice in the continuous pattern of fluorescent lights lining the ceiling. He weakly cries for them to stop, only to be met with a concerned pair of eyes, mouth obscured by a surgical mask.
"Pediatric code orange, ETA - now."
And with that, he's drifting back out of consciousness. He doesn't try to fight it, just lets himself slip away. It's peaceful. There's no more hurt, and he can't bring himself to care.
The next time he wakes up, there isn't a single cell in his body that isn't screaming out in protest of his current state. A pink plastic bin is thrust under his chin, and before he can ask why, he's puking his guts out. He hears distant murmurs of 'adverse reaction to anesthesia' and 'no, we will not be pressing charges.' With that, he decides that it might be it would be better to go back to sleep. Maybe things will look better when he wakes up.
The days blur together, highlighted only by incremental improvements to his physical state and more of those same damn pitying glances from people he doesn't even know. He hates them - almost as much as the pungent odor of antiseptic.
It's eight days into his stay when the nightmares start. He's not even sure if they're nightmares at first, because they feel so real. He's running, running, running, and he trips and falls in the same place every time. Dread seeps through his veins because he knows what's coming next. Time and time again he is shocked to wake up in his hospital bed with someone pushing something through his I.V. and petting his forehead. He must have been screaming, because his throat feels all funny.
On day twelve, his mother wordlessly drops a stack of papers and brochures for a school in Westerville. The students featured on the front page have to be actors, because they're smiling and laughing like high school is a wonderful place where you don't get the shit kicked out of you for being different. They're mocking him. He shoves the papers into a nearby trash bin, letting out dark chuckle of disgust. Yeah. Like that's going to change anything.
The grass still looks like shit on the other side.
They're making him walk. It's one of the stipulations of his impending discharge. He leans against the counter of the nurses station, feeling uneasy about being out of his room for a change. The constant stares only serve to make matters worse.
A little girl, about four or five, asks him why he's in the hospital.
He tells her he got his tonsils taken out.
Welcome to Dalton Academy. We have stupidly extravagant corridors and say lots of nice things in order to earn your enrollment check! His parents seem pleased enough, because before he can blink, he's standing in front of his future dorm room. Every bruise feels like fire against his ill-fitting uniform. His messenger bag digs into a particularly painful spot on his shoulder. The fear of whatever might lie beyond that door is eating him alive. His throat is closing up. Did his tongue always feel like it couldn't possibly fit into his mouth?
He pushes his fears aside and knocks.