The weeks pass, and boy, do they pass.
Everything inside of the hospital blends into a monochrome tapestry of routines and medicines, each day a little less grey than the last. Lithium has become my newest companion, a tiny pill that's supposed to smooth out the rollercoaster in my head. Mom didn't take the news well, her face a mask of worry and denial when the doctors suggested Bipolar. A sort of smothered horror, although I can't fathom why. It could be worse! I could be a sociopath (something I'm not entirely unconvinced of).
But me? I'm kind of okay with it. If it helps, it helps.
My room has transformed into a mini command center. There's a stack of school books on the bedside table, dog-eared and bristling with sticky notes. My laptop is open to a half-finished essay, words that don't seem as important as they used to. On the wall, get-well cards and drawings from friends create a collage of colors and well-wishes. Wilted flowers sit in a vase. The bed has a me-shaped lump in it.
The view from the window is a slice of the outside world, a world that feels both close and infinitely far. The trees are budding, spring whispering promises of renewal. I watch people walking below, living lives that seem so normal, so untouched by the chaos that's become my normal.
Physically, things are… better, I guess. The radiation did a number on me, cooked me from the inside out, but my shark genes are doing their best to patch me up (note to future historians and NetSphere article writers; I know I don't have shark genes). My muscles are still weak, though. Sometimes I catch myself daydreaming about running, jumping, anything more than the slow, painful shuffle I manage now with the physical therapist's help. I've gotten used to using a cane, which I really hate. As soon as I'm back to normal I'm breaking it in half.
Emotionally, it's a different story. The lithium helps take the edge off, but there's a numbness that comes with it. I feel like I'm watching my life through a foggy window, everything muted and distant. I miss the highs, even if they were a little scary. Now, everything just feels… flat.
My friends have been great, visiting when they can, keeping me in the loop. But there's a gap between us now, one that wasn't there before. I'm the girl in the hospital bed, not Bloodhound, barely even Sam Small, not the girl who faced down Chernobyl. A tidy little art installation.
And then there's Jordan. They haven't visited yet once I woke up, and I can't help but wonder why. Guilt, maybe? I keep telling myself it doesn't matter, that I've got enough to deal with, but it's like a splinter in my brain, nagging and sharp. Are they finally ditching me? I don't even know the fate of all my stuff in the music hall. I don't even know if we're still allowed in the music hall. Spindle shows up every now and again but he's busy learning how to be a superhero, the new new meat.
Some days, I catch myself staring at the ceiling, lost in a maze of what-ifs and maybes. What if I hadn't confronted Chernobyl? What if I hadn't been so reckless? Or what if I had been more reckless? Was it not enough, or too much? I could've let the adults deal with it. Is everything worse just because I was born? It feels like that sometimes.
The door creaks, and my thoughts scatter. A nurse comes in, her smile warm but professional. It's time for another round of meds, another check on my vitals. It's a routine I know by heart now, one that's both comforting and suffocating. Her words pass through me like pasta water through a collander. Totally devoid of substance. Nothing useful, just a byproduct.
As she fusses over me, I find myself drifting, thoughts wandering to the days ahead. My fifteenth birthday is coming up, a milestone I'm not sure how to feel about. Part of me wants to celebrate, to mark the occasion. But another part, the part that's still lying in this hospital bed, wonders what there is to celebrate. Am I going to be here forever? Will I be forced to celebrate in the cafeteria of a hospital? I don't even have the hangers-ons from school to stroke my ego about it - do people still think I'm the cool bully hunter?
If I had to guess, I'd say they probably think I'm some sort of delinquent. That sounds about right for my reputation.
The nurse leaves, and I'm alone again, just me and my thoughts. I turn back to the window, watching as the last light of day fades into twilight. Tomorrow is another day, another step towards… something. Recovery, maybe. Or just a different kind of battle.
The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.
The days in the hospital have settled into a routine that's both comforting and stifling. Each morning starts with the beep of my alarm, a sound I've grown to dread. It signals the beginning of another day confined within these four walls. There's, like, little outside areas, and bigger places with wider gaps between the walls and the ceilings, but it's almost always four walls, a floor, and a roof over my head. All indoors.
Physical therapy is the first order of the day. It's grueling, pushing my body to its limits, but I can feel the strength slowly returning. Each small movement, each step, is a victory. The new therapist, a kind but stern woman named Lisa, encourages me with every strained muscle and bead of sweat. "You're getting stronger, Sam," she says, and I cling to those words like a lifeline. I'm not really sure what happened to the other guy, I stopped seeing him after my first session.
After physical therapy, it's time for schoolwork. My laptop becomes my window to the outside world, to a life that feels increasingly distant. My teachers send me readings and power points and my classmates take turns writing down notes, but it's not the same. I miss the chaos of the hallways, the buzz of the cafeteria, the freedom of moving from class to class. Here, it's just me and the screen, and sometimes the silence is louder than any school bell.
Lunch is a brief interlude, a moment of normalcy as I pick at hospital food that's bland and uninspiring. I long for the taste of something real, something that isn't sterilized and packaged. If I felt like being morbid I could pretend I've developed a taste for blood - Blahh! - but really it's just… I'm tired of the microwave stuff they give me. And Jello. No more Jello please.
The afternoons are a mix of reading, watching TV, and scrolling through my phone. Friends text, and I respond, but there's a disconnect. They're living their lives, moving forward, while I'm stuck in this limbo. I see pictures of them hanging out, laughing, and I feel a pang of something like jealousy, like longing.
There's also time for introspection, for staring out the window and thinking about everything and nothing. I ponder over my rogue's gallery, the choices I made, the price I'm paying. I watch the news. They found Miasma and his court date is soon. I don't know if they're going to call me in to act as a witness or what? I feel especially bad about him, that there's a very real chance that he ruined his life because of me - that I ruined his life. Boy! That sucks.
Evenings bring visitors – sometimes family, sometimes friends. They bring a piece of the outside world with them, a breath of fresh air in the sterile environment. But their visits are also a reminder of what I'm missing, of the gap between me and them. They try to bridge it with stories and smiles, but the gap remains.
Everything keeps moving forward without me. And I'm still stuck in January.
Nighttime is the hardest. The hospital quiets down, and I'm left alone with my thoughts. The darkness feels heavy, pressing down on me with all its might. I lie in bed, listening to the rhythm of my own breathing, the steady beep of the heart monitor. Sleep comes, but it's fitful, filled with dreams of running, of flying, of being free, frolicking among fields of pink and red flowers, the faces of the dead watching me. I haven't stopped checking over my shoulder for Kingdom assassins, but I have caught Multiplex once or twice.
And then it's morning again, and the cycle starts anew. Each day a little step, each day a little closer to something resembling normal. But normal feels like a foreign concept now, something out of reach, something that maybe I'll never fully grasp again. What is normal when you're a superhero? Did Liberty Belle feel like this when she was getting her cancer treated? I think she must've. I think if she felt like it was easier than me, I'd feel insulted, somehow, but it's not exactly like I can ask her.
I ask her in my dreams, but she never answers, of course. Plus, dreams aren't real, and neither are ghosts.
----------------------------------------
Something new today, my therapist told me.
Yeah, not digging this.
The trip from my hospital room to the rehab center is a short journey, but it feels like a million miles. I walk slowly, still unsteady on my feet, feeling the eyes of nurses and doctors on me. They know me here, the girl who survived the impossible. My heart beats a nervous rhythm, a mix of anticipation and apprehension about this new step.
The rehab center is a different world from the hospital. It's brighter, livelier, but still carries that clinical air. I pass through corridors lined with motivational posters, echoing with the sounds of recovery and rehabilitation. My steps are measured, a testament to the grueling hours of physical therapy, and I refuse to use the cane, determined to rely on my own strength.
I wonder to myself if there's a pill for the sort of depression you get from staying in a box for like… two, three months. Is that also lithium? Or do they give me something else for that?
As I enter the group meeting room, the reality of what I'm about to do hits me. I'm here to join a support group for traumatized superhumans. People whose powers came at a heavy price, or in impossible circumstances. And maybe some of them have rogues of their own, but I'm doubtful. From what I've been told, not all superhumans are superheroes or supervillains. Most of them are just… people. The room is filled with faces, each carrying their own story of pain and survival. Each the face of another person.