Ruin

by Clarissa Wild

We’re cracking jokes like it’s something we do every day of the week.

  Situationally so unfit … yet it’s the only way I know how to cope with this.

  We arrive at the pre-op room. “There you are,” he says. “The nurses will take care of you. I’ll see you when you wake up.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  I only say it because it’s the polite thing to do.

  Because everyone always expects you to.

  But let’s face it … who in the world is thankful for needing surgery?

  I look around and watch the nurses bring in more people on beds, all being prepped for surgery. One after the other gets hooked up with electrodes and prodded with syringes, and afterward, they ride them out of the room to their destination.

  And now, it’s my turn.

  A woman sits next to me and smiles while she introduces herself. I’ve already forgotten her name after one minute. I’m so bad at remembering things. I don’t mean to be antisocial … I was just born this way.

  The woman puts an IV in my arm and the electrodes on my head and chest.

  The final checkup begins.

  I state my name and date of birth again as I have a hundred times since I’ve landed in the hospital. I accept the risks that are involved and agree to the surgery.

  I tell her I’m fine with my mom and dad having sole authority over the decisions made for my wellbeing, should I fall into a coma. Should they have to pull the plug.

  I sign a form.

  It’s strange to realize that may have been my last signature.

  Nobody knows—not me, her, the nurses, or any of the doctors.

  But they assure me they will try their best.

  Of course, they will. I don’t expect any less. Still, it’s not easy knowing any minute could be my last.

  The nurses come and say it’s time. Now, it’s my turn to be ‘that one’ … The one who’s being wheeled into the OR on the same bed she woke up on.

  They ride me into a cold, snow-white room that smells of detergent. Never in my life have I seen a cleaner room than this. There I see Dr. Hamford smiling as he sees my face again.

  The nurses place me next to the operating table and takes down the metal railings. Then they help me shift from the bed to the table.

  It’s then that I realize I’m still wearing the plastic boot.

  “Doesn’t this need to come off?” I mutter.

  Dr. Hamford chuckles. “We’ll do that when you’re under,” he says.

  “Oh … right.” I didn’t realize, but of course, it would be much too painful anyway. It’s just sad that I didn’t get a last look at my leg before they cut it open. Before it’s changed forever.

  I have a thing with changes. And forevers. I avoid them at all cost.

  “Ready?” the doctor asks me.

  Like I’d ever be ready for this.

  I shake my head and say, “No.” But my voice breaks out into a bit of nervous laughter. “But it needs to be done.”

  He nods and tells the nurse to start the drip.

  “Count back from ten please,” he asks me.

  “Ten … nine …”

  I look up at the ceiling and fade out.

  ***

  Four hours later

  I fade in and out of consciousness, my eyes struggling to stay open.

  I hear voices in the background, but they fail to register.

  My mouth feels dry and my throat sore. My muscles are weak, and I’m unable to move a limb.

  It takes a few more seconds before I can finally lift a hand. My nose itches, so I start to scratch and realize there’s a tube in there. Naturally, I begin to pull it out.

  The nurse chuckles as she comes to me and says, “No, no. Leave it in there.”

  Her words only partially register with me. My mind is still one big jumbled mess. I don’t even know what’s in my nose or what I just did, but I don’t really care either. I’m just really, really tired.

  After a few more minutes have passed, I finally look around. I vaguely see people in scrubs walking around and someone coming near me.

  “Hey there. Waking up already?” a woman says, but I can barely hear her. As if cotton balls are stuffed in my ears.

  I think I groan a response, but I’m not sure.

  It feels as if only seconds have passed since I last lay on that cold, flat surface, waiting to be operated on. So when I open my mouth, the first thing that comes out is, “Is it done already?”

  The nurse laughs. “Yeah. You’re all done.”

  Wow.

  I never understood what people meant when they said they missed a few hours of their life, but now, I do. I literally feel like I went to sleep and woke up within the same second.

  No. Sleep is the wrong word.

  Sleep is soft and gentle. You fall slowly and deeply into a soft cocoon. You can wake up at any moment from the slightest of sounds or movements.

  But this … this was something different.

  Something that felt like I was there and then I wasn’t … and then I woke up, all in the space of one second. It was literally nothingness.

  Like how I imagine death would feel.

  The nurse shoves something cold into my mouth. “Here’s a popsicle. Suck on it. It’ll help you wake up quicker.”

  I do what she says and take a lick. Strawberry. My favorite. But I have trouble swallowing. God, my tongue feels swollen. And I’m tired … so damn tired.

  Finishing my popsicle seems to take forever. I don’t even know how long I’ve been here, or how long ago the nurse came to give the popsicle to me, but when she comes back, she’s decided it’s time for me to go back to my room.

  I just let it all happen.

  It’s not as if I can stop them anyway. I can’t even utter a goddamn word.

  Riding through the hallways feels like bliss now that the surgery is finally over and my accumulated stress dissolves. Until I see my parents standing near my room, waiting to greet me.

  But I can’t say more than a simple, “Hi.”

  Not because I don’t want to but because my mouth refuses to move properly. Plus, my throat feels more sore than ever. Must’ve been the tube they used to regulate my breathing.

  I’ve never felt this groggy before, and after a quick two-sentence conversation with my parents, they leave again. The nurse says I need the rest, and they agree. I do too, actually.

  All I can think of is pillows. And sleep. Lots of sleep.

  I close my eyes for a second, only to wake up hours later in the middle of the night.

  My stomach growls. Too bad it’s past the time when you can still order food using the phone.

  Does that mean I’ll have to wait until tomorrow morning to eat something? Because it’s been almost a day now since I’ve eaten. Not that I can’t live a day without, but still, I’d like to taste something other than Tylenol in my mouth.

  So I search through the bag that Dad brought me, but unfortunately, I find no Doritos. Sighing, I pull open the drawer in search of my phone so I can text him to bring me some. However, right next to it is a Snickers bar with a note below it.

  I don’t remember bringing that …

  I take it out and open the note that’s underneath.

  Hey. It’s me, that guy who was looking at you awkwardly. Sorry I didn’t say anything. But I just wanted to say hi, so … yeah. Anyway, I know you must be hungry after the surgery. I don’t know which sweets you like, so I hope a Snickers bar is okay. Enjoy.

  My heart skips a quick beat.

  That boy standing at the door … I remember him.

  The first genuine smile in ages forms on my face as I close the note and tuck it back into the drawer with care while unwrapping the Snickers and stuffing it in my mouth.

  God, a Snickers never tasted this good.

  Sandwiches in the Hallway

  Maybell

  Before

  Crooked, p
otato-like nose.

  Uneven green eyes behind a set of glasses with sloppily applied purple makeup and heavy eyeliner.

  Wavy hair that never listens and looks like cobwebs when sprayed with hairspray.

  Three almost-ready-to-be-popped zits.

  Yep, I’m a complete and utter mess.

  I tried covering it up with foundation, but that only made it worse.

  I glare at myself through the mirror, my eyes stopping at every imperfection they spot. I don’t mean to do it, but it just happens.

  After being called ugly so many times, one just starts to believe it. And when I look at myself now, I don’t blame them. I might even convince myself they’re right.

  I sigh and swallow away the loathing that settles. I won’t give up … yet.

  With my head held high, I walk out of the bathroom and slide on my coat. “Mom, I’m off to the party.”

  “Okay, honey! Get back safe and sound!”

  “I will,” I call as I run out the door.

  Thirty minutes later and I’m standing in front of a door that’s no match for the loud music booming behind it. It’s literally vibrating as my hand levitates close to the doorbell.

  I make one last check and pull up my bright purple pants before ringing the bell and clearing my throat.

  When a girl my age opens the door, her face goes from wide smile to disappointed and revolted.

  “Uh … Hi?” I don’t know why I make it sound like a question.

  Stupid, stupid, May!

  “What do you want?” the girl barks. Talk about unfriendly.

  “I’m here for the party … There’s a party here, right?” I try to ignore her obvious snarl.

  Her brows rise, almost as if she’s surprised I showed up. “Oh … well, yeah, but—”

  “You invited the entire class,” I add, as if it’s going to help.

  “Right …” She grits her teeth and then forces out a fake smile. “Yeah, of course. Sorry, I didn’t realize you were in our class too. Come in.”

  She steps aside and allows me to enter, but the way she leans back tells me I wasn’t expected.

  And she wasn’t the only one … because half the eyes in the room that look my way seem surprised.

  Damn.

  I didn’t know I wasn’t invited when she invited everyone.

  I make my way through the crowd slowly, trying not to be too obvious about the fact that I have no friends with me, but it’s hard when everyone’s looking at you as if you don’t belong.

  There’s only one person I’m looking for, but I can’t find her anywhere, not even near the punch bowl or outside.

  After five minutes of still not finding my only friend, I decide to grab a plastic cup and fill it with punch. A girl’s gotta do something to avoid looking like that awkward nerd who doesn’t know how to talk to people and start conversations like normal people do.

  Plus, I like to dance, and I like to listen to music, and I can do both of them right here, so why not enjoy it while I can? I just start swaying my hips to the music, smiling at anyone who walks by, hoping someone will notice and start to dance with me, but none of them do.

  Not that it matters. I like being on my own … and dancing on my own is my specialty.

  The room is quite hot, though, and soon, sweat is running down my back. I need a drink to cool myself down, so I grab my cup of punch, but the moment I take a sip, I realize it’s heavily spiked. I immediately put it down, following a cough. It burns all the way down my throat.

  God, I hate that feeling.

  “Can’t handle the buzz, huh?” one of the boys muses, laughing a little.

  “Not really,” I reply.

  “C’mon, it’s not that bad,” he says.

  I shrug. I get that others may like it, but I don’t. “I just don’t like it. Nothing wrong with that.”

  He raises a brow while pouring himself a cup. “You should learn to live a little. Maybe then you’d have more friends.”

  And then he walks away without looking back.

  Just like that. Another dagger to my heart.

  Now, I remember why I never come to parties.

  My art teacher once sat down with me after I was bullied in his class. Instead of telling the bullies to stop harassing me, he told me I should make more of an effort to fit in. That, instead of being different, I should try to be the same.

  He didn’t know I had Asperger’s, and neither did I.

  My parents didn’t tell me until I was much older … but by then, it was too late.

  They thought it wasn’t good to put a label on me, like it was some kind of stigma that would stop me from being a part of society, but I disagree.

  My teacher only wanted what was best for me, and he didn’t know any better. I still listened to his advice, even though I knew in my heart that he was wrong. Like this party … I only came here because I could still hear his voice in my head, telling me that I should try to act normal. Maybe then, I’ll finally be accepted. Maybe then, I’ll finally belong.

  I hate disappointing people … and myself.

  I turn around and make my way to the door again, only to find it being blocked by three of the most popular girls in school. When they spot me, they stop talking and eye me from top to bottom, settling on chuckling without even attempting to hide it.

  “What are you doing here … in those pants?”

  One of them points at my purple, scale-like pants, which glisten in the light, and her finger makes me look down too. “What? I like them,” I say.

  They laugh, almost louder than the music itself.

  “Oh my God, that’s hilarious! You look like a clown. I can’t believe you’d wear that to a party like this.”

  I make a face and cross my arms. “Oh, I’m sorry … I didn’t know this was a party like that. I didn’t know this was a party where you had to dress up like a whore and act like a bitch.”

  Their eyes widen and their jaws drop. I use their astonishment to my advantage by slipping past them, only to be called out as I walk down the steps.

  “You’re a stupid, ugly girl, and nobody likes you, Maybell Fairweather. Or should I say May-turd Not-so-fair-nose?” The girls laugh like hyenas, but I close my coat and pull up my hoodie, trying to block out the sound.

  And my tears.

  This isn’t the first time, and I know it won’t be my last, either.

  Being bullied for not looking or acting a specific way.

  Being chased away for not fitting their mold.

  Being misunderstood for a difference I was born with.

  Sometimes, I just want to give up on it all. Sometimes, I wish for it all to just disappear. And sometimes … I just know that I don’t belong in this world.

  ***

  Now

  It’s been a few days since the surgery, and I’m so glad they’re finally taking off the bandage.

  My leg hurts like nothing I’ve ever felt, and it’s so swollen that it looks like someone inserted a balloon. When the nurse removes the bandage, and I see what’s become of my leg, I feel queasy.

  “Looks good,” she says.

  I gag a little at the sight of my bloody skin sewn together by a blue wire across the entire length of the incision that runs along my knee and shin.

  “I can’t look at it,” I say, looking away as she gently swabs it with a cotton pad.

  “It’s fine,” she muses. “It healed nicely.”

  “Is it closed yet?” I ask, already feeling queasy just from the thought of it still being open.

  “Yes but not completely yet. You can’t put it under water.” She lowers my pajama pants.

  “Wait, what?” I mutter. “So no showering?”

  She cocks her head. “No, sorry.”

  I frown. “But how am I supposed to wash my hair? It’s getting all greasy.” I don’t want people to see me when my hair is greasy; it looks yuck.

  She pauses. �
��Well, if you really want to, I could ask one of the nurses to help you.”

  “Yes, please,” I say.

  “All right. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Can I maybe eat lunch somewhere else today?” I ask before she’s gone.

  She stops in her tracks. “Like where?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just tired of this bed,” I say, putting on the best smile I can muster right now.

  “Sure, I can set you down at the table near the end of the hall.” She grabs the wheelchair and puts it in front of me. “You’ve placed your order already?”

  “Yeah, a few minutes ago.”

  “Perfect. I’ll tell them to bring it to you there.” She picks up my leg and carefully helps me lift it off the bed so I can shift from the bed into the wheelchair. The whole thing takes a while, but at least, it doesn’t take as long as it did before they bolted my bones together.

  In my robe, I’m driven down the hall to a table with a stack of magazines.

  “There you go,” she says. “I’ll return in about an hour. Is that okay?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “If you need something, just call out.”

  I nod and thank her then she leaves.

  I sigh as I pick up a magazine from the stack and randomly flip through it, not really interested in what it has to say. I see the words, but they don’t register. The only words that do filter through are the ones mentioning a life-shattering change. Something I can identify with.

  Because I’ve never been through anything this big … And if I have to be honest, all that talk about clothing and makeup and decorating just doesn’t cut it anymore. Not when all I can think about is when I’ll be able to move my leg without feeling pain, when I’ll be able to stop taking these meds, when I’m finally allowed to start putting weight on it, and if I’ll ever be able to walk without pain again. If I can jump or run. Or even bend over or sit on my knees.

  All simple things I took for granted.

  All things that seem so normal but really aren’t.