The sharp smell of antiseptics lingers in the air.

A low beep echoes through

the room every so often.

Every breath I draw causes pain to shoot through my ribs.

I try opening my eyes; for all the good it did me, I shouldn't have bothered.
The room is enveloped in pitch-black darkness.

Slowly, I let the air out of my lungs, trying find a way to breathe without the
same pain every time.

My head is foggy...must be whatever they gave me for the pain.

Just how bad is it?

The beep comes from somewhere again. It repeats every fifteen seconds.

I try and hear anything else, but the room seems to be empty.

Another beep, this one is louder, just above my head.

When a patient is expected to be in pain for longer durations, they keep him
hooked on a steady line of painkillers...

The devices are set to release a pre-determined amount at regular intervals,

sometimes they emit a high pitched beep. I probably woke up at the end of
a cycle...

As the drugs take effect, my eyelids grow heavier to the point where I give
up trying to keep them open.

At least breathing hurts less... maybe this way, I can get some more sleep...

I'm a single child.

Between my mother's ambition to become chief of surgery, and my father's

nonstop travelling, my childhood wasn't anything you'd call stable.

In a year's time, I'd spend more time hopping hotels with my dad than
playing with friends in the neighborhood.
He's a silver-tongued marketing powerhouse, his company begun back in St.
Petersburg, but has since expanded to Shiogama, my "home".

Marketing isn't something you easily make a international business, but he

went ahead and did it anyway, it's the way my father is, even here.

I could never forget the day they decided we should move.

Mom was called to Japan for some kind of specialty surgery. She was, and
still is, a talented cardiologist.

That hardly gave her the right to just decide to stay there.

But then dad agreed to the idea of moving, and my fate was sealed.

I don't know why it bothered me so much.

Dad kept dragging me off on his business trips, and I got to see the world.

Many different people, many different languages, cultures.

Over time, I started to mimic them, to absorb them. I started to ask dad to
buy me dictionaries whenever we went somewhere new.

The hobby quickly became an obsession, and I threw myself into the
languages of these passing people, taking their words and claiming them as
my own.

Even when I wasn't with dad somewhere, I'd find tutors to help me refine
my knowledge.

Once, a long time ago, my words weren't strong enough to keep me from
losing my home, but now, I wield them as weapons.

But even the sharpest weapon is worthless if you don't know where to strike.

I'd greet the businessmen of the world in their native languages, it always
delighted them.

Even such men, who spend their lives on planes and in cars, long for
stability.

That was the first thing I learned about them; how they missed their homes.
Dad wouldn't mind me asking them questions like that, it helped his work
when the men he dealt with were reminded of their homes and families.

Everyone wanted money, and my father was really good at selling ideas that
helped make it.

But in the end, it'd always be me who walked away with the most things
gained.

People are driven by their desires; learn to recognize those desires, and you
get surprised much less often.

Learning to manage people, I opened many doors for myself.

But one still remained closed...

I never knew stability, so I sought the power of words and knowledge to

have something to keep myself sane.

But all of that changed when I met Canon.

Our relationship was certainty, something I could fall back on whenever my

life threatened to get too crazy again.

She gave me the foundation I secretly craved.

Maybe that's why I was willing to put up with all of her quirks; the
alternative was being alone again.

It's something I want to avoid feeling ever again.

I'll see her again...everything will be ok...

The world is too bright to my eyes.

I squint, momentarily managing to forget about the pain that flares in my

chest every time I inhale.

The hospital room they put me in is quite large. My eyes are directed
towards a wall-mounted television that seems to be broadcasting something
about winter sports.
I try to move my arms and legs; although they seem fine, my joints flare up
worse than my chest, and I cry out in pain.

The sound catches the attention of an elderly nurse, who, after giving me a
look of utter annoyance, starts making phone calls.

Labcoats start moving through my room, stopping by my bed every so often.

Their hands are tired, but accurate. A particularly short, bald-headed doctor
gets my chart, waits until the other conclude I'm conscious, and then starts
listing my injuries.

Smashed ribcage, hurt shoulder and hip, opposite sides. I was lucky to get
away with only a concussion.

Estimated time of recovery is three months.

He also reads the paramedic's report, and starts bitching to me about using
stairs alone.

"Dyspraxia is no joke, son. You were lucky this time, sure, but that fall could
have just as easily killed you."

Like I ever needed you to tell me...

I wait them out, mouthing words of thanks when I realize my mother hasn't
appeared yet.

Soon enough, I'm the only one in the small room. Next to my bed is a
nightstand-like shelf with my phone and a note on it.

With my good arm, I take the note.

I recognize my father's edged handwriting immediately. He's off on another

trip, says Kristen will be around to visit me again in the morning.

Instinctively, I glance around for a clock. The digital one on the far wall says
it's 2 PM.

She probably went home by now...

I want to sigh, to scream, anything to show my discontent, my anger. It's all

hopeless, anything I try just shoots a spike into my chest, rendering me
mute from pain.
In the end, all I can do is wait.

A month has passed already.

Mother used her authority here to make sure I could stay until I'm
completely healed.

Kristen comes by every day, exactly at 9 AM.

I'm tired, the medication and the pain disrupt my sleep...but seeing her
makes me feel better, better than any medicine could.

Like the weeks before, I glance at the clock every few seconds, only to see
that the numbers haven't changed.

Twenty minutes, ten, five, one. I start counting the seconds, to see if she'll
be late.

A minute goes by.

I stand up from my bed, taking care not to disturb my shoulder, or to put

too much pressure on the ribs.

Wandering off towards the room's only window, I still keep count of the
seconds.

Two.

The sunlit yard remains unchanged from yesterday. Interns dash to and fro,
while the elderly and the chair bound take it easier.

I went out once or twice, with Kristen, but the yard is just as bleak and
boring as the room.

Three.

Maybe I should send a text, ask her if everything is ok? No..that wouldn't be
right.

I told her that she doesn't have to come by every day, that she should enjoy
the summer.

Despite all of that, she kept visiting.

Needless to say, I was glad to have some company in this forever
unchanging room.

We'd talk, mostly. It helped take my mind off of the daggers in my ribs and
shoulder.

Four.

Maybe she isn't coming?

Something probably came up, and she won't be able to show up. I can't
expect to always be the first priority.

"..."

It's the boredom.

My inability to do anything meaningful or worthwhile is suffocating.

I can only wait, hoping that a little part of the outside world will come and
visit me, letting me breathe.

Trapped in this white-walled cage, I'm left to waste away.

My talents, my ambitions and desires; all are left in the background. Here,
I'm just another patient.

Another broken limb for the good doctors to fix.

They do their work, barely trying to hide the scowls that grew permanent
with the years. To them, it's just another bother in a day full of them.

Were I to actually do something, it'd just be a bigger bother.

So I'm treated like a plant, given food and water. I don't know why they
leave the yard open when it's no different from the rest of the hospital.

The stench of misery and lifelessness is overwhelming...

Five.

She isn't coming. The realization hurts worse than my chest.

Kristen, is everything alright? Why didn't you let me know you won't be
coming?
I sigh. At least I can sigh now.

She'll come by tomorrow, right?

She never came back.

I was left alone to rot in this little room, with my little television and its little
sports broadcasts.

Four white walls, draining everything from me. Some mornings, I wonder
why I keep getting up.

What will I do with the rest of my summer when I get out? My girlfriend left
me.

Said she couldn't handle being with someone as selfish as me anymore.

I even tried apologizing, asking what's wrong. I didn't want it to end like
that.

I loved her.

She sent me a picture with her new boyfriend. Some laid-back looking
chump with blonde hair.

A part of me wanted to cry, to feel sorry for myself, to find a way to stomach
this loss.

But...I didn't.

This place, this hospital... It's showing me how pointless all of this really is.

Everything I thought I already had set in stone simply fell apart.

My summer plans drift away like the clouds at the edge of the lone window.
Even the constant pain became less of a problem.

Time loses significance. I stop telling the days apart from each other. I can't
even tell if the doctor who does my checkups is the same person every time.

I find myself spending my hours working through the books mother brought
me. Most of it is bestseller bull, but I don't mind.
When the loneliness kicks in, I usually go down into the yard, pitting my wits
against the elderly in consecutive games of shogi.

It never lasts long. After a loss, I lose my focus and get swept away by the
experience and skill of my opponents.

There's also the boy.

He's about my age, always wearing a hood. We eat breakfast together,

talking about whatever strikes our fancy.

Says he's been here a while.

Even his eyes look dead...clouded and foggy, they have lost what once must
have been an energetic shine.

I wonder how long it'll be before my own start looking like that...

How long will it be before I decide to throw in the towel?

"No way, I can guarantee that the blond haired doctor is sleeping with those
two nurses."

He's also in a room with a small television, his plays "Grey's Anatomy", so
he took it upon himself to figure out exactly who is screwing who in this
hospital.

Strangely enough, he didn't say anything when my mother passed by.

"Look, I told you once, and I'll tell you again. This is not a TV show."

He crosses his arms, giving me an annoyed glare.

"Come on man, we're here whether we want to or not, let's at least have
some fun."

I roll my eyes, leaning against the wall.

"You have it easy, a few broken bones."

"A motor disorder."

"So? You still get to live a happy, healthy life well into old age."

"And you won't? Why exactly are you here?"

He blinks once, throwing his arms up.

"Whatever man. You're being a killjoy. I'm on the roof."

With that, he disappears.

That strange boy, Kyo is his name, is the closest thing I have to a friend
now.

I want to say that it bothers me, but it doesn't. Simply put, I don't care
anymore.

Maybe I'm losing it...

"Mikhail, there you are."

I look up, immediately recognizing the tired, yet driven gaze of my mother.

"Mom."

"We need to talk about school."

"What about? I'll just go back as soon as you and your minions are ready to
release me."

She rolls her eyes at my nickname for the doctors, but gives no other sign.

"I believe, given your condition, your reckless behavior and disregard for
your own well-being, that you should instead transfer to Yamaku academy."

On cue, a pamphlet materializes in her hand, ready for my inspection.

I take the colorful piece of paper, giving it a quick study.

Learning center...safe environment...special needs...

This is a school for the disabled.

"Mom, I'm not going to that school. I'm not disabled."

My voice jumps at the end, turning a few heads.

Mother seems unfazed however. She adjusts her glasses, and takes back the
pamphlet.
"Right then. I won't bother you anymore, your lunch is waiting in your
room."

Annoyed, I make my way back to the cell.

Once there, I notice her little surprise. Instead of my usual spoon, she
arranged chopsticks to be brought.

Is that her way of trying to prove a point?

So what if I can't use chopsticks, or if my orientation sucks? So what if I

can't do every sport? If I can't drive...

Staring at the thin wisps of smoke rising from the bowl, I do little but stay
silent. The little television is mute as well, the way it has been ever since I
found the power socket.

This place is turning me numb.

Once, I completely lost it when she brought up a special school. Now I

barely reacted.

Being in this place, surrounded by so much death and hopelessness... It gets

to you.

You start feeling just like every other lost soul here. Nothing holds any
meaning any more.

There's the faint hope that one day you'll leave, but there's also the fact that
you may just as well die here.

It is purgatory.

Complete, numbing stillness.

And I'm afraid I'm getting used to it...