Hospitals are not my favorite place to be.
The reasons should be obvious. They’re too bright and they smell and they
have all these questions about why are
you in here for another fractured bone when it’s only been two week or the only way that could happen would be to
fall off a building or, my personal favorite, Son, I don’t know what you kids are into these days but we’re calling
the cops.
Suffice to say, I try not to be in them often. But I think I’ve been in enough to know all
this polka music is unusual.
I’ve been awake for 14 songs now. Or was it 15?
I’m not 100% on that. I haven’t
actually bothered to open my eyes at this point. I am in a hospital after all, and I’m hoping
broken people don’t need to be on high alert in these sorts of places. That would be awful for the healing
process. So I think it’s been 14 or 15
songs. There was this weird pause about
3 (4?) songs back and I’m pretty sure I heard people arguing in Polish and - -
Oh. God. No.
She didn’t.
She couldn’t.
I’d say she wouldn’t but she totally would.
My eyes open, and apparently she did.
“I think I’ve discovered your hamartia.”
“hmphffgarg-MMMMMM” I
was saying What are you talki- WHY CAN’T
I TALK?
Which wasn’t close enough for my sister to interpret. I don’t know why. I thought the message came across very
clearly.
“Yes, alright, dear brother.
Please don’t interrupt. Thank
You.”
Chelsea, sans the PajamaMan attire, rose from the hospital
chair and perched onto the edge of my bed.
She was being graceful. It was
unnatural, she’s never graceful.
It was only when she moved to hold my hand that I realized
the reason for her careful movements.
I was strapped to this stupid uncomfortable bed.
“gyfathevuu”
“Love you too.” Well,
at least the I hate you went across
loud and clear. “But I think we both
agreed it was better if you don’t speak.”
“vidiffknotts”
“Ah. Ah. Nope. I can bring the Polka band back in
here.” I honestly hadn’t even noticed
they’d left. I’m pretty sure the music
was still running through my head. Would
I ever have a second of my life without the background noise of Polka? Was that really my worst problem here? I mean, I’m strapped to a bed.
Strapped. To a hospital bed.
I looked down at my feet, also strapped.
It was a bed.
It was not a hospital bed.
“So, I may have had you moved
during your little sleep vacation.”
This was worse than the Polka
music.
“Don’t look so upset. You can’t get caught up on the whole
kidnapping thing right now, I’m trying to have a serious discussion.”
Discussions usually involve both
parties being able to speak.
Wait.
Why couldn’t I speak?
I tried to give Chelsea my best what did you do to me face. I’ve had lots of practice with that
particular face. I think it’s what you
might call my normal expression. She
seemed to catch onto the meaning right away.
She should, she’s had just as much experience receiving as I’ve had relaying.
“Fine. I’ll explain it. It sort of ties into the tragic flaw epiphany
I had.
You went to the hospital after
digging through my room. Which I told
you not to do by the way.
I specifically recall telling you
the piles were organized just like I wanted and should not, under any
circumstances, be moved, didn’t I?”
She did. I may have failed to nod my head. There was no way I was admitting fault in
this. Moving a pile of clothes does not
constitute being blown up and kidnapped by your little sister. Even if you had been there to plant a bomb
yourself. My reasons were totally better
than her reasons. I was the hero in this
story. She was the one prancing about
leaving bombs on the floor in a residential area. That’s just… bad manners. Better Homes and Gardens wouldn’t exactly include
it as a spruce up your environment tip.
She wasn’t bothered by my continued
staring. How could she be? This was grade A monologue opportunity. Any self-respecting sibling or arch-nemesis
would pounce on it. Being both, she
almost didn’t have a choice in the matter.
“Are you listening?”
I nodded without thinking. Although I should probably be listening.
“Whatever. I hired the Polka band to cover up the noise
of all these stupid machines. Necessary
to keep you alive or something. The
doctor really wouldn’t shut up. She
didn’t even want to release you into my care.
Your own sister! How rude. Healthcare.
Don’t even get me started.
So I decided this just can’t happen
anymore. You need to step up on your
whole superhero-ness if we’re going to keep this up. I can’t have you crawling to the hospital
every time we meet out there.
I might be your nemesis, but I’m
also your sister.
In other words, I’m calling a
truce. Until you get better. And then, I’m thinking, I’ll give you some
pointers on the whole not dying part of being a masked supersomething. It can’t be so much different from being a
supervillain, can it?”
She stopped and moved towards the
door.
I would probably say something
witty here.
Pretend this is really witty and
dashing. Throw in some laughing out of
your seat if you’re really feeling adventurous.
I’ll just. Sit here, I
guess. And try to figure out how my
little sister jumped to the conclusion of me needing lessons on how to be a
hero. I’m an AWESOME hero. She just – She – I mean, there were
bombs. BOMBS. That would throw anyone off their game.
If I’d planted my fluffballmachine
first, she’d be- Well, she wouldn’t be in the exact same position. But she would be at the laundromat crying
into the washer over her ruined stuffed animals.
“Oh, by the way, one of the Polka
people used to be some sort of black market surgeon,” She sounded way too
chipper for this to be good news. “I had
him sort out that talking problem of yours.
Good Night!”
