Worlds Apart Third Entry

by Mark Mangum

December 16th, 2007

As my father stormed out in disgust, a woman stepped into the room and identified herself as Ms. Shaver, a clinical social worker. She had bleached blonde hair, green eyes, and expert makeup. She asked for my mother to step out of the room as well and turned to me with a gaze that said that she meant business now. She spoke in a soft, clear voice. “Well, Lucas Belmont, I have been brought in to speak to you about your predicament. I need to assess you and recommend your treatment from here on out. Now you are over 18 so you will be responsible for your care, but I can say that with the severity of your injury, that I am going to recommend that you be put under 48 hours of observation to evaluate your mental state.” I felt sure that my mental state was not in any state that Ms. Shaver would ultimately approve of, and as for me being responsible for my care, I had already proven to her and everyone that I couldn’t step up to that challenge. “I will leave you to get some rest, but I will see you first thing in the morning Lucas,” said Ms. Shaver with a very calculating look in my direction. “I will also see to it that your mother and father not be permitted back in the room until we have had a chance to evaluate you” this time with a very sly smirk.

As Ms. Shaver stepped out of the room a nurse came in right behind her. I was beginning to think that I might not get any rest or privacy at all. The nurse examined my cuts with practiced, yet detached ease as if she were on auto-pilot. She redressed the wounds and busied herself with disconnecting the cardiograph, and the steady beep suddenly died. As she wheeled the machinery towards the door she suggested that I get some rest and that some food would be up shortly, then turned and walked out the door shutting it behind her. I was suddenly left to a room with a deafening silence. Now that I was alone, I decided to make a trip to the restroom. As I stood there in front of the mirror, I noted that my usual olive complexion had been replaced with a sickly white that was only matched by the walls and sheets of the hospital. I was made to look paler by the mess of black hair that curved around my face. My green eyes, which were usually so vibrant, seemed dull and colorless. As I splashed water on my face, I questioned myself. What had pushed me so far down the spiral?


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