You've already counted the ceiling tiles. The thick, pungent scent of hospitals and death is strong in your nostrils, lingering like a bad case of the flu. You're halfway through counting how many people are wearing sneakers when the door opens. You don't meet the doctor's eyes because you have the feeling he's not looking for you.
"Ms. Hashburn?" You keep your eyes on her shoes, scuffing hurriedly across the tiled floor, until her flip-flops disappear around the corner. You bet that's the other Sad Room, where the doctor takes family members in to privately tell them their loved one has perished. Why not just announce it to the entire room? People are going to know eventually, when the victim comes back in, sniffling and sobbing, trying to recall the last things they ever spoke to their dearly beloved.
You're already counted the shoes. You've moved on to acting interested in CNN on the television. The TV is muted, so you're simply reading white words scrolling across the bottom, and they're worried about the health care bill. You're worried about having to spend another hour here.
They don't call your name, but instead, call your father and take him into the room. Why can't you come along? Just because you're young doesn't mean you're completely stupid. Soon enough, though, your father comes out and his face is stoic. You shake his arm gently and he shifts uncomfortably.
"Did she have too much to drink this time? Is she dead? In a coma? Come on, Dad, you can tell me. We both knew it would happen eventually."
"I can't believe she's gone."
"So she's really dead?" You let out a huge breath and don't expect it to catch on the way out of your throat, but it does, and you can feel the water pricking at your eyes. You shut them tightly and your fists clench around the arms of the chair. When you open, the hospital smell is stronger, and so is the scent of blood. It reminds you of a copper penny and you wrinkle your nose in disgust. When you go to unclench your fists, you find that you cannot. Confusion rakes through you roughly. The lights on the ceiling are dazzling and bright and pulsing down onto your wet forehead. Wet? When did you last take a shower?
Your tongue darts across your upper lip and the copper penny emerges again. You're bleeding. Okay, you're bleeding. You can't tell if you're lying down or sitting up, but you try to move your head, to look for anyone to complain about the wet copper pennies. You see the flash of a white coat, doctors bustling like bees with doctorates, but nothing more. The lights above begin pulsing again, this time with a light feather design. Feathers?
You're a bird. You flap your wings, but you go no where, and you are saddened. You want to be a bird. Squeeze your eyes tighter and more feathers appear. Eyelashes. Momentary lapse of attention. More bees pass by in their long coats and turn to gaze at you with large, round glasses and all the eyes are staring at you. You smile and flap your wings for them.
"I can fly, too." Where is the Sad Room? Are you in it? If so, can you leave, so you can fly away?
"I can fly, too." The bees do not reply. They cover your face with a white shroud, but it's dark to you, and the pulsing lights are gone. The feathers are gone. You try to beat your wings, but to no avail, and the wet pennies are creating a thick film over your eyes.
"I want to fly!" You scream and wrestle against the hand that pulls you into a sitting position. The shroud drops down and the pulsing lights are back and the feathers are back and now your wings are working. You pull away from the bees as they look on with their thousand eyes and pass the Sad Room, where your father is sitting alone.
You count the ceiling tiles as you burst through them.
