In the air around us.
It settled like a heavy, wet, suffocating blanket.
Dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Dead.
I felt it then. The world snapping back to life. The panic. My already too fast breaths turned into pants and quickly grew worse. Darkness edged my vision. I was not calm. There was no calm. There could never be calm again. I clawed at the person holding me. More hands—all over my body. The shock of cold as I was laid flat. A face going in and out of focus over mine as the pain and panic actively stole my breath and consciousness.
On impact.
I stopped then.
Everything just stopped.
I sucked in a deep breath.
My body went rigid.
It was painless.
It tore from me. Desperate and broken. Keening. It was a terrible sound. And it echoed throughout the rink.
He’s dead.
And I was dying.
24 HOURSAFTER THE ACCIDENT
“Fractured Femur.”
Dead.
“Fractured knee.”
On Impact.
“Compression fracture in her wrist.”
It was painless.
“Whiplash.”
He’s dead.
I blinked groggily, listened to the steady beeping of the heart rate monitor. I inhaled stale oxygen that was fitted under my nose and partially listened to the doctor.
“She’ll need six to 12 months for the knee and femur with physical therapy. And at least eight weeks for the wrist.”
The voices were muffled, distant. I clicked the button for more morphine. My mother must’ve seen my eyes open. She brushed hair off my forehead and squeezed my arm in comfort. Orion and dad stood at the foot of the bed, a mix of so many emotions on their faces.
“Whiplash can be a week to four weeks. We’ll have to monitor. And there’s the issue with the slight concussion.”
My blinks became heavy, and I let the meds take me under. The world turned blissfully dark.
