Hesitating and Suffocating

65 days, she had been here. Waiting for someone to claim her, to sit by her bedside, hold her hand, kiss her until visiting hours were over and they had to leave. There had been people, of course, her best friend and her husband, and her family, but there was a certain someone she was waiting for.

For 65 days, she pieced her life back together as best she could. There were things she still couldn’t remember, things she couldn’t recall. There was the day of the accident, where metal had crashed into her side, breaking her ribs and her arm, as well as fracturing her ankle.

The doctors told her she was lucky to have lived, and something told her it wasn’t luck. It was the only boy she wanted to see.

She was told he had moved away, moved to a different part of the state with the rest to be closer to his business. But she, in the most cynical way, knew different. He was trying to get farther away from her.

She sighed deeply, twirling her dirty hair as people sang to her. Today was her twenty-first birthday, something she imagined spending with him, or at least his friends. But today wasn’t a day to be sad or upset or longing his attention. She was spacey on the details, but she had loved him.

Her best friend smiled a bit, clapping her hands and singing loudly. She laughed louder as the girl smiled, looking at the blue and white cake, scratching at her IV but keeping a happy face. Everyone was worried for her, worried that, even if she recovered physically, she would never be able to recover from the blow once she began to remember. Her best friend was highly disappointed in what he had done. She wanted nothing more then to bash his face in. But she wouldn’t. She would be there for her best friend while she healed.

“Dear, eat your cake and stop scratching at that bloody IV,” She murmured, and the girl in the dreary bed smiled, taking a bite as her doctors and nurses, the closest thing she had to human companionship during her night terrors, entered the room, smiling with her, laughing with her.

The man who came with the perky red head smiled, grabbing the frail girl’s hand. “I reckon you’re getting a tan there, sweetheart,” He said, rubbing her fingers gently before taking a seat beside her, winking. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, my love, mi amour.” The red head rolled her eyes, smacking her husband.

“Stop flirting with the poor girl,” She said, and the girl fell back into a funk. 65 days, she had been here, and all she could remember was a name, a single name. John O’Callaghan, the boy who loved her more.