I could practically feel my body getting pneumonia as the ice-cold water seeped through my previously warm clothes. Despite being in a puddle, I curled into a ball and waited for the inevitable to happen. After seven whole second of laughing and "what are you gunna do now, loser", it finally came. The impact of someone's boot on my spine made my already shuddering breath rush out in a torrent of pain and humiliation. This continued exactly thirty- seven times more before I stopped counting. To my disgust, I started to cry, which really didn't make sense because this happens every Tuesday. Tuesdays were the only days my mom couldn't pick me up from school, so I had to walk home. No matter which way I tried to go, the other kids always found me. I'd tried walking through the fields between the school and home, I'd tried walking through the alleyways; I'd even tried walking in a group, but that group just ended up cheering.

Finally, they stopped. I listened to them as they walked away, laughing and mimicking me in little baby voices. When their voices faded, I opened my eyes. I was lying in a close- set alley. It had just rained this morning; so there were puddles of inclement March water everywhere. I watched cars on the street at the end of the alley flash by for a few minutes until I had counted to the thirteenth car. A sharp pain snapped me back to reality, bringing with it more pain than ever before. I winced and started to get up, slowly straightening out my back. Just moving made me feel like my bones were cracking in half and starting on fire at the same time. I spat swear words and bit my tongue as I forced myself to get to my feet. A brilliant hue of red dots obscured my vision as I stood up straight. I took a step and immediately fell to my knees, gasping from the pain shooting up and down my right leg. "No," I whispered, "no no no no!" I reached down and gingerly touched my calf. Even through my jeans, I could feel that there was a clean break through my tibia...or was it my fibula? I sighed and wished I had paid more attention in anatomy class freshman year. If I couldn't walk, I'd have no other choice. I would have to call my mom.

I dragged myself over to my backpack and dug through it until I found my phone. I dialed my mom's work number; I had no other choice. It was either she or an ambulance, and we didn't have the money for an ambulance. The phone rang a couple times until finally I heard my mom's voice say, "This is Dr. Linkdon's office, how may I help you?" I choked back a pathetic sob and said, "Mom? It's me." I didn't fool her, though, and she immediately asked what was wrong. I thought fast, knowing that if I told her the truth things would only get worse. I cleared my throat and said, "I fell down the stairs at school. I thought I could make it home but I can't really move right now. Is there any way you can come and get me?" I heard her get up and walk a ways before saying, "Dr. Linkdon? I have to go. Family emergency. I'll be back as soon as I can!" I breathed a sigh of relief when I heard the doctor give her the ok. "Where are you at?" she inquired apprehensively. "I'm in the alleyway off of Main Street. The one with the blue and yellow house and the end of it," I answered. She paused and said after a moment, "Ok. I'll be right there."

After she hung up, all that I could do was wait. I laid on my back and listened to the sound of my teeth chattering and cars whizzing by on Main Street. The tips of my fingers were rapidly turning blue and losing feeling, which is something I probably should've expected to happen, considering it was twenty degrees out. It had started to snow a few minutes before. I entertained myself by watching it fall and stuck out my tongue so I could catch a flake or two. I hadn't realized how thirsty I was before I caught a snowflake on my tongue and felt the infinitesimal amount of water it held roll down my throat. After ten minutes of lying on the freezing cement, I fell asleep, unable to endure the pain that was swallowing me whole.

I dreamt that I was in a box made of glass. It was tall enough for me to stand in and wide enough for me to spread out my arms like wings. When I stood up, a freezing gale hit me from behind and tore off my clothes. I stood there, naked, as a crowd gathered outside of the glass. They whispered and pointed, jeered and laughed. A light turned on so that I was in the spotlight, and everyone hollered like it was the best show they'd ever seen. I attempted to curl up in a corner but found that when I tried, chains rose up around my ankles and wrists, holding me like vises. Out of the back of the crowd emerged my kid brother, Jack. I looked away, too ashamed to catch his eye. When I looked back, my mother, who stood there with a jackhammer, had replaced my brother. She ran at the glass and broke it open, shouting and cursing at the surrounding crowd.

I woke with a start to the voice of my mother saying, "Honey? Sweetheart, wake up. We're going to the hospital." I groaned and looked at her, only to find her looking from my legs to my stomach to my shoulders, and finally to my face. I looked away before she could see the shame I felt killing me from the inside out. She hooked one arm under my back and grabbed my head with the other. It took all the strength of Zeus and Hercules to get me up, but eventually I stood on my feet, swaying like a ship in a torrential sea. I leaned on the little green Volkswagen bug my mom drove and crawled my way to the passenger door. Once in, I sat down and leaned my head back, willing my mother not to ask any questions. Even if she had, though, I wouldn’t have known. Once my seatbelt was on I blacked out again, but this time I was enveloped by peaceful, velvety darkness.

Before we arrived at the hospital, the car jostled and woke me up. I pretended to be asleep when I realized that my mom was on the phone. She was saying frantically, “She lied, I know she did. This is not from falling down the stairs! Her bones are protruding out of her skin, Jerry, god you never listen! Just-“ She was cut off and I could hear my father’s voice speaking in that calm yet firm voice. I couldn’t understand what he was saying but I could tell he was trying to calm her down, because he only ever used that voice when something awful was happening. “Ok, Jerry, ok. I’m pulling into the hospital right now so I have to go. Get home as soon as you can to take care of Jack.” She hung up the phone before he could say another word.

I opened my eyes. The hospital was just a block away, so I didn’t say anything to my mom. I didn’t want her to think I had heard her and my dad’s conversation. They had been fighting a lot at that time, and more often than not it had been about my little brother, Jack. Jack was eight years old, making him six years younger than me. He was in third grade but read at the level of a first grader. When his teachers and my parents tried to help him, he’d cry and scream, “the letters were dancing around too much to read”. He’d run up the stairs to my room and crawl under the covers on my bed. On good days I could cheer him up with a solid tickle fight; on bad days he’d wrap his arms around my torso and refuse to let go until I bribed him with one thing or another.

Usually when these episodes with Jack happened, my mom would start crying and my dad would “take a walk” around the block. I always associated those jaunts with cowardice, because he couldn’t face my crying little brother even to say that it would be all right. When he’d get back from his stroll, he’d sit down at the kitchen table and read a newspaper article, as though reading in front of Jack would somehow help. It didn’t. My mom would usually stand in the doorway of my room and watch Jack and me interact. Sometimes she’d open her mouth like a fish gulping at unyielding air for water, and then close it. In a different way, on a different level, she was also a coward because she couldn’t find it in her heart to rush forward and wipe the tears off of Jack’s cheeks like a real mother would. She left the mothering to me, in a way.

We pulled into the hospital and my mom said, “Stay here,” before rushing in the automatic emergency room doors. I didn’t argue because I couldn’t. My legs were completely numb. The thought crept into my head that they would always be numb, but I pushed it away before it did any damage. Two male nurses came out of the hospital with a wheelchair, which I silently cursed about. It was like my dismal future with no legs was slapping me in the face. Shut up! I silently yelled. When they lifted me up, a fierce pain shot up and down my back like a ball in a pinball machine and a cry escaped my mouth. They murmured apologies and lowered me into the chair. I focused on my right hand because it seemed to be the only thing that wasn’t trying to rip apart my nervous system. My eyelids felt like they were lifting weights every time I blinked. Every time I closed my eyes for longer than a wink, the nurses would say, “You have to stay awake!” That spurred a feeling of panic in me; somewhere I’d read that if a badly injured person falls asleep, their brain goes to sleep too- permanently. I kept my eyes open.

Immediately after the chair crossed the threshold of the emergency room, I was rushed by a bunch of concerned looking people in scrubs. By then my brain was functioning like it was drowning in tar. The concerned scrub- wearers picked me up and laid me down on a gurney. I cried out and didn’t stop; I told myself to stop over and over again but my mouth wouldn’t shut up. A female scrub- wearing Hobbit told me it was all going to be ok. I couldn’t help it; I started to giggle. Then I started to laugh. I couldn’t stop! The Hobbit shouted something at a serious looking man in a white coat, and he pointed at another scrub- wearer, who then proceeded to come at me with a needle. My laugh turned into a scream of terror, then everything went black for the third time that day.

One kick.

Two kick.

Toe kick.

Heel kick.

When I woke up there was tape over my eyes, but I knew there were others in the room. I heard someone turn a page in a book and another person sigh; someone else was tapping his or her foot to some silent beat. I counted the tapping to twenty- six then cleared my throat.
“Sissies awake!” Jack shouted.
“Nurse!” my mom called out.

The hurried footsteps of the nurse came into the room and I felt the tape getting removed from my eyes. I squeezed them shut and then looked around, taking in my surroundings. The nurse who was checking my vitals was the one I’d called a Hobbit before; she was pretty short. Jack came over and stuck his thumbs into his ears, crossed his eyes, and waggled his fingers around. It was our sign, sort of like a secret handshake. I tried to do it back but found that my arms were as heavy as lead. He just stood there and looked at me. My mom was standing on the opposite side of the bed from Jack, holding my hand and somehow managing to look angry and compassionate at the same time. My dad sat at the little table in the corner. Staying out of things, as usual.

Before my mom could say anything, a doctor walked into the room. He had a balding head and vibrant green eyes that were hidden behind a pair of bulky glasses. He looked down at his clipboard and inquired, “Riley Augustine?”
“That’s me,” I choked out in a surprisingly gravelly voice.
“I thought so. Mr. and Mrs. Augustine, I presume?” he asked chirpily, like he dealt with things like this every day. I suppose he probably did, being an emergency room doctor and all.
“Yep,” my dad said, finally standing. He refused to look at me, and I felt a wave of rage roll through me. Hadn’t he ignored me for long enough?

The doctor opened his mouth but didn’t get anything out before Jack piped up, “I’m her brother, Jack. Is she going to die?” The doctor looked stricken for a second, like a soldier under his command had just spoken out of line. “No, of course not,” he finally piped up, “She’ll be perfectly fine. Would you all mind if I speak to Riley in private for a few minutes?”

My mom looked at me and went to argue, but my dad said, “Of course, doctor. Come on Jack.” My mom fixed a fiery eye on him, but followed him when he commanded, “Come on, Eileen.”

Once my mom left the room, it was just the doctor and I. He pulled one of those doctor’s swivel stools over to my bed and said, “So, Miss Augustine, here’s your assessment: you have a broken tibia in your right leg, seven broken ribs on your right side, a fractured spine, a shattered collarbone, and a broken right humorous. Your recovery will take a while; no school for quite some time,” he gave the smallest of encouraging smiles at that. I didn’t return it. “Will I be able to walk again?” I asked. He looked shocked yet again and sputtered, “Of course! Now Riley, I need you to tell me how this happened. You can trust me, I promise.”

I looked away from his bedazzling eyes and focused on a small crack in the ceiling. How could I tell him? If I did, the others would’ve found out and then I’d actually be dead. I shuddered and realized what was going on. Some losers from the reject table and the jock table and plenty in between had just beaten me beyond belief. I was alone and defenseless and all they wanted was to feel powerful. Anger overwhelmed me, making the heart monitor next to my bed scream frantically at the silent room. What had I done to them?! The doctor looked up at the heart monitor and back at me. He didn’t say anything, but he raised his eyebrows and smiled a little, expectant. I calmed down at that smile; it reminded me of the smile Jack gave me when I used to read bedtime stories to him.

And then I told the doctor everything. His eyes widened and he scoffed at the right times, making it easier to tell the story. I watched the clock on the wall as I told the story. By the time I told him that was all, sixteen minutes had passed. I looked away from the clock and into the doctor’s emerald eyes, feeling the compassion they held wash through me. “I’m going to take care of all of this, Riley. When you get out of here, I promise you’ll be safe. Got it?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.
“Got it.”