Ruin

by Clarissa Wild

  Our bodies are precious and fragile, and I realized that too late.

  “Hello,” a woman says as she holds out a tray. “You ordered this, right? The nurse down the hall told me you were sitting here.”

  “Oh, yes, thank you,” I say, suddenly aware of my growling stomach.

  “You’re welcome. Enjoy.” She sashays off to the other rooms up ahead, while I unwrap the quesadillas and take the plastic off the sauce. I dip it in and lick my lips, my mouth already watering and opening widely at the thought of tasting all that goodness.

  Suddenly, a guy plops down beside me on the bench.

  My sauce drips off my quesadilla as I gape at him.

  “Hi,” he says, a simple grin adorning his round face.

  A piece of chicken drops from my quesadilla and almost rolls off my plate. “Shit.”

  He laughs. “Oops. Did I do that?”

  “No. Crap.” I pluck it off my plate and stuff it back into the quesadilla, but when I catch him looking, I blush. “Sorry. I just don’t like it when chicken goes to waste.”

  “Oh, I’m not saying a thing. Chicken can never be wasted.” He takes a small package wrapped in plastic out of his bag and places it on the table, still rummaging through his bag.

  “Um … what are you doing?” I ask.

  He puts a bottle of Pepsi on the table and places his bag under the table. “Sitting. Eating.”

  “But …” I mutter, still unsure what this is. “You’re that guy who’s been visiting me.”

  “Yeah.”

  Yeah.

  So simple. It’s like it doesn’t faze him.

  But he’s the guy who brought me that Snickers. To me, he’s some kind of god.

  He starts unwrapping the plastic around his sandwich.

  “Hmm … I freaking love chicken,” he says, taking a bite of his sandwich that has some kind of spread on it.

  “Guess we’ve got something in common,” I muse, taking another bite of my quesadilla.

  “Mmmhmm …” He nods, visibly enjoying his lunch. “Sorry about not saying a thing the other day … I was a bit weird.”

  “It’s okay.” I smile at him. “So … what are you in for? Broken toes? Brain surgery?”

  “Me? Oh, I’m not a patient here,” he says. “I’m a volunteer.”

  I put down my quesadilla. “A volunteer of what?”

  He shrugs. “Anything. Showing patients to their rooms. Explaining basic things like how the phone works and where the toilets and exits are. Generally helping people with stuff. Or entertaining them.”

  “Oh … look at you … being a good Samaritan.”

  A smug smile appears on his face, dimples appearing on each side. “Well, you gotta do something to keep yourself busy.” He takes a sip of his Pepsi. “So what do you have?”

  The smile almost immediately disappears from my face. “Broken leg.”

  “Ouch. Is it bad?”

  “Yeah …” I chew on the inside of my cheek for a second. “My knee and shin are shattered from a car accident.”

  He stops eating and puts his sandwich down. “Wow. That sucks.”

  “Majorly,” I add.

  “So what now? Do you get a cast?”

  “No, I had surgery. They put seven pins and a plate in my leg.”

  “Really?” His eyes widen. “Whoa, then you’re like a cyborg or something.”

  I laugh, suddenly seeing an image of myself in a Robocop uniform. “Cyborg … Basically, yeah.”

  “So does that mean you’ll never be able to walk again or …?”

  I sigh and stare at the stack of magazines, wishing they were on a table somewhere far from here. Like the dentist, they always have those magazines too. And even though there’s pretty much nothing I hate more than going to the dentist, I’d freaking love to be at the dentist right now instead of here in this hospital.

  I say, “Right now, I can’t. I don’t know if I’ll be able to. The doctor says I probably will, but that one word … probably … it could ruin everything.”

  “I can imagine you’re feeling a lot of doubt.”

  “Yes, and it’ll take months and months of rehab to know whether I’ll be my past self again.” I look his way, my lips parting to mention that one thing. That thing that’s been lingering there since I came here.

  Dancing.

  I’ll probably never do it again.

  I briefly smile and push away the impending tears.

  “So you’ll be staying here at the hospital for some time then?” he asks.

  “Yes, I think so. I’m not sure. The doctor didn’t say when I could go home, but I know they want me on physiotherapy ASAP. Actually, I think they’ll have me doing some exercise today. Something where they put my leg on a device. I don’t know.”

  “Nice.” He nods, taking the final bite of his sandwich. He stuffs his mouth with it until it can barely close, and he chews with half his mouth open, but I don’t mind. It kind of makes me laugh because it doesn’t fit, and he still tries.

  “Well,” he continues after swallowing, “at least you’ll have plenty of time to explore the hospital.”

  I shrug.

  “And for me to entertain you.” He wriggles his eyebrows up and down.

  I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the laugh that escapes my mouth. Oh lord, this guy. I’m sure I haven’t seen the last of him.

  And I’m sure he’s going to be a handful.

  “See you around,” he says, winking as he gets up from his seat and chucks his plastic wrapper in the bin next to the table.

  Then he saunters off with his hands tucked in his pockets, whistling a tune that reminds me of a catchy song resting on the tip of my tongue.

  He has this air about him.

  A kind of swagger in the way he walks that I haven’t seen before. It’s not arrogance but confidence. And a type of easiness you miss once you’re alone again.

  And then I realize … I didn’t even ask for his name.

  Clean Slate

  Maybell

  I take off my shirt as the nurse turns on the shower. She helps me pull off the pants and underwear, stripping me of everything until I’m naked right in front of her.

  That’s one thing no one ever tells you about hospitals. You always need help, and that includes all the dirty things. Nothing’s secret anymore. Not here.

  To me, it feels wrong. Like I’ve been robbed of everything that makes me human. My dignity. My naked self used to only be for me.

  Now, it’s for any nurse who needs to help me pee, get undressed, or in this case … shower.

  Not that they care. I mean they see so many naked bodies a day that it doesn’t faze them anymore. But that’s them … It isn’t me.

  To them, I’m just another patient. Just another number in the total amount of people they need to take care of today.

  “Let’s get you wrapped up,” the nurse says as she grabs a plastic bag and pulls it over my leg. As the wound hasn’t completely healed yet, we have to keep it from getting wet. It’ll have to be kept away from water for about a week. After that, I can slowly start washing it with a warm cloth again.

  “All done.” The nurse smirks as she puts the final piece of tape on top, making sure the plastic isn’t going anywhere.

  I lean back on the small stool and let my hair soak underneath the water. It feels so good to finally feel the water running over my skin again. I close my eyes and let the warmth envelop me. Even though I’m not fully under, it’s more than what I’ve had until now with those cloths. At this moment, I can forget that I’m going to be disabled for a while. That I’ll need assistance wherever I go. And I can even forget about the nurse being here, if only just for a second.

  The nurse hands me another cloth, and I pour my familiar shower gel on it, the smell reminding me of home. I comfort myself with the thought that I’ll be there again soon, even if I don’t know when ‘soon’ truly is.

&n
bsp; I wash my hair and enjoy the water rushing along my face, laughing as the nurse almost trips over my pants. She picks up my dirty clothes and says, “I’ll grab some new ones for you, okay? You can use the red wire if you need help.”

  “Okay, thanks,” I say as she leaves.

  Finally, some time alone.

  I sit and close my eyes again, just listening to the sound of the water clattering on my skin. There, I can finally breathe without feeling constricted. In and out. As long as it takes to open the faucets to my heart. Tears mingle with the water until I can’t separate the two anymore.

  When the door opens, I brush them away and pretend there’s water in my eye.

  “Here’s a new shirt and pants.” She places them on the counter close to the sink.

  “Thanks,” I say, and I turn off the water. “Could you hand me a towel?”

  “Of course.” The nurse leaves and quickly comes back with two of them, handing one to me so I can do my hair.

  She helps me dry my back and my leg while I do my private parts. It’s difficult reaching everything now that I have limited movement. I never realized how time-consuming it is to do regular stuff when you’re not able to do it on your own anymore.

  When I’m completely dry, she helps put on my underwear and pants, while I do my shirt, and then she holds my arm as I slide back into the wheelchair, making sure I don’t slip on the wet floor. “All done?” she asks, quickly checking the room.

  I grab my shower gel and shampoo off the rack. “Yeah.”

  “Good. I’ll get you back to your room.” She turns the wheelchair and pushes it out the door. I feel like a passenger in a car, while other people decide where I go, how I get there, and how fast. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to not being in control.

  She drives me into my room and helps me onto the bed, where I immediately grab my laptop. I feel better today, so I’ve decided I’m going to do what I haven’t done in ages—write a story. Maybe, if I write long and hard enough, it can even become as big as a book.

  I smile to myself as the nurse leaves, and I grab my earplugs so I can listen to some music while writing. I almost always have music on wherever I go. Even if it’s just a short shopping trip, I need the music to stay calm. It keeps me focused on my goal, and it helps me forget about all the other people around me.

  I get nervous a lot.

  Like now, when a familiar guy stands in my doorway.

  “It’s you …” I pull my earplugs out of my ears.

  “Hey there,” he says, as he casually saunters in. “How you doing?”

  “Better, I guess. They took me off the morphine today. I still have some medicine, but at least I’m not so drowsy anymore.”

  “That’s good! Although I’ll probably miss the doped-up girl.” He sniggers.

  “Ha-ha …” I throw him a scowl. “But what are you doing here?” That came out way more blunt that I intended. I always talk like I’m angry even when I’m not. Something about my intonation always makes me sound like a bitch, even when I’m not trying to be one. Just another perk of having Asperger’s.

  “Oh, just checking up on you … Seeing if you needed some help.” His shoulders rise and fall as his brows do the same, making me squint.

  “Help with what?” I say.

  He sits down on a stool in the corner opposite of my bed. “Anything. Or if you need entertainment.”

  I snort a little. “Right. Because you’re Mr. Entertainment.”

  “Exactly.” He winks, and somehow, it makes me blush.

  For some reason, it’s hard to look away too.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  “Alexander Wright.”

  I smile. “Maybell Fairweather.”

  “Hmm … Maybell … nice name.”

  “Thanks.” I blush.

  I don’t know why or what it is about him, but he has this gentleness about him that soothes me and makes me want to ask him to stay, even if I don’t have a reason for it.

  But then I realize it’s not the only reason I’m looking at him.

  Something’s felt off since we met, and I couldn’t put my finger on it, but now, I can.

  “Wait …” I mutter. “I know you, right?”

  “Yeah, I’m that guy who ate a sandwich with you the other day. You don’t remember? Should I call a nurse?” He chuckles.

  I roll my eyes. “No. I mean …” I recognize him from somewhere. “I know you from … school, right?”

  His eyes suddenly widen, and he slams his lips shut.

  HA! I knew he looked familiar. “No way! I knew it.”

  The muscles in his face tighten. “Oh, boy.”

  “I’ve seen you at school a few times.”

  “Really?” he says, scratching the back of his neck.

  “Yeah … don’t tell me I’m making this up. I’m not crazy … right?” I pout.

  He smiles, his dimples making me wanna pinch his cheeks. “No, you’re not crazy. It’s just a surprise that you’d even recognize me. People usually don’t even see me. I’m invisible.”

  “Yeah?” I bite my lip and frown. “Same here.”

  He lowers his arm. “No … you’re not invisible at all,” he says, looking at me with half-mast eyes. “I see you. All the time.”

  ***

  Alexander

  Before I know it, I’ve already blurted it out.

  I really did say that out loud, didn’t I?

  Fuck.

  I want to smack myself, but that would be too obvious. But damn if I didn’t feel the redness creeping onto my cheeks. Fuck. This is embarrassing.

  Is she going to freak out? Call me a stalker? A creep? I wouldn’t blame her; she’s right.

  But no, she smiles instead.

  She actually smiles.

  I can’t believe it.

  I smile back and then she resumes tapping away on her keyboard. I cock my head to see what she’s doing, but the screen angle doesn’t allow it. However, when her eyes rise to meet mine and her brow lifts, her fingers stop. That’s when I know she’s caught me snooping.

  “What are you doing?” she asks.

  Now, her fingers are twirling through her hair, creating knots and intricate twists that she seems to enjoy touching. I wonder why she does that. Regardless, it makes me smile.

  I counter her question with another. “What are you doing?”

  She rolls her eyes and stops twirling her hair, immediately continuing with typing on her laptop. “Writing.”

  “Writing what?”

  “A book.”

  I frown. Wow. I didn’t know she wrote books. “Can I see?”

  “No.” She grabs her laptop and closes the screen when I try to peek from the side.

  “Aw, c’mon,” I say.

  “No, it’s not finished.” She tucks the laptop into a small compartment of her bedside stand.

  “So? I can read the end later.”

  She squints. “Why are you so interested?”

  I shrug. I don’t have an answer besides the fact that I’ve always been interested in her. But I can’t tell her that, so I settle for something else. “Because I’m supposed to be.”

  “Oh. Right. Because it’s your job.” She makes quotation marks with her fingers.

  “It is, actually. I’m not just here for helping … I’m also here to talk to patients.”

  “Well … I don’t wanna talk.” She looks away at the window; her face contorted as she bites her lip.

  I don’t believe a word of that, but I won’t go against her.

  I’m also not gonna leave. Maybe if she asked … maybe not.

  I’m here on a mission, and I’m not giving up so easily.

  So I grab my bag and take out my paper and pencil set, pulling out one of the drawings I was still working on. It’s a two-story house with a parking garage and fancy sliding doors. Just some random house that I fantasize about. I do it all the time.


  I cross my legs and place the paper on the hard cardboard that’s always in my bag, and then I start to draw. It relaxes me, and I usually do it when I need to take a breather. But now … it’s because she’s watching me. Not with wide eyes, but with her head turned away, she still glances every now and then.

  “What are you doing?” she asks after a while.

  I briefly take a glimpse of her curious face before looking down at the paper again. “Drawing.” I reply the same way she did.

  “Can I see?” she asks after a while. I guess curiosity killed the cat.

  “No,” I say. Just to mess with her.

  Too bad I can’t keep a straight face when I see hers getting all worked up. So I grin, which only gets her more worked up. Her face is all scrunched up, and I love it. But I know she doesn’t.

  So I turn the paper around and hold it up for her to see.

  “Oh, wow. That’s so cool,” she says, unfolding her arms. “How do you do that?”

  “I just draw a lot. Plus, I’m kind of studying in this direction.”

  “Awesome.” She smiles, and it’s the kind of smile that could win a thousand hearts. I just wish her own smile could make her as happy as it makes me when I see it.

  “So you want to become an architect?” she asks.

  I clear my throat. “Yeah.” The way she looks at my drawing makes me feel proud as a lion.

  “Those courses must be tough, right?”

  “Hmm, what?”

  “The courses at the university,” she adds.

  “Um …” I frown. It’s a bit embarrassing to talk about this. “I’m not actually in college or university. Yet.”

  “Oh … I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s okay.” I smile to try to defuse the situation.

  “So what are you doing now then?” she asks.

  I know she only wants to know more about me, and even though her questions sometimes really come off as an interview, I don’t mind. “After I dropped out of high school, I wasn’t doing much until I started volunteering here.”

  “Dropped out? I thought you’d graduated.” She licks her lips and makes a face. “Sorry. I didn’t know that.”