The door opened with a slam, there was James in the bed with small polka dot sheets; bunched and bandaged with a grief stricken look upon his face. He was worn, and so very tired. His mother approached the bed noticing all of the devices he was hooked up to and the I.V. that was pricked into his arm. She sat softly weeping trying to not upset her already anguished and confused son.
“I imagine you’d like to know what happened,” James said.
“I’m just glad you’re alive! What happened to you?! Who would do this to-”
“Lynn,” James interrupted, “Stop, it’s not important anymore.” They both shared a somber silence. “Did the doctor tell you about, you know?”
“No, he didn’t feel it was his place to tell me,” she said sniffling.
“He wants to send me to a psychotherapist; he says it will help with what’s been happening to me.”
“What exactly has been happening to you James?” she asked with a cautious tone.
“I’m not sure even I know,” James replied, “I just want it all to be okay, I want to get out of here. I’ve only been here a few hours and I feel like I’m going to lose my goddamn mind,” James said as he clenched his already bruised hands onto his bed’s armrests. He stared up at his mother. “The doctor says I’ll be good in a few days, when I get out… after I heal up… I’m leaving…”