Fuck, what’s wrong with me?
There’s a rustle of movement on my left, followed by an unpleasant voice I’d recognize anywhere. My heart rate spikes at the helplessness that fills me.
“He’s awake, Sandra. About time.”
Theodore “Dory” Bancroft Seaborn the Third. My father. I spent years learning to speak differently, trying not to sound like him. What the fuck is he doing here?
Every cell in my body recoils at the grating presence. A lifetime of expectations and disappointments flash through my mind, urging me to once again be silent, so he can’t use my words against me.
“Teddy, sweetheart,” my mother coos from the other side. Her voice rings false and sugary sweet; as though she’s auditioning for the part of a worrying parent, which is laughable. There’s not a single motherly bone in her fragile body. “You’re in the hospital. You had an accident and have been in a medically induced coma for three days.”
I understand what all her words mean separately, though putting them together makes no sense.Hospital? Accident? Coma? What the fuck is happening?
My dry, cracked lips barely move as I attempt to speak. I force myself to swallow, trying again. “Water,” I croak.
A drawn-out moment later, the rim of a plastic cup presses against my lips. I sip carefully, the ice water soothing my sore throat. After a few more mouthfuls, I lie back and breathe hard, exhausted after such a simple task.
I blink again, but nothing changes. “Turn on the lights, for fuck’s sake.”
“They are on,” my mother replies, her tone confused.
Jerking my hand upward, I move it toward my face. Dory catches my wrist in a firm grip before I can reach my eyes. “Calm down, Teddy,” he commands in a clipped manner. “Don’t touch your face. You’ve just come out of another surgery hours ago.”
“Surgery? What the hell is wrong with me?” Silence. “I can’t—I can’t seeanything.”
Sandra’s breath catches. “What do you mean?”
“It’s all black.” My voice breaks. “Something is wrong with my eyes.”
She whispers frantically, followed by Dory asking for a doctor. It hits me all at once; I’ve lost my vision. Not in a metaphorical way, but in the real, terrifying sense. Someone pulled a curtain over my eyes and forgot to lift it.
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “No, no, no?—”
“Teddy, stop,” my father says as he puts his palm on my shoulder. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
“Get away from me!” I scream and flail my arms, feeling the pinch of what might be the IV drip on my left hand. “Don’t fucking touch me—I don’t want you here!”
My chest heaves, but sucking in breath changes nothing. Instead, the pressure in my skull intensifies with the quickening beeping of the hospital monitors. I need space—I can’t fucking breathe.
“Get them out!” I yell, praying for someone to hear my plea. “Get them the hell out of here!”
The door opens, new footsteps entering the room, light on their feet. “Everyone out,” a woman orders. Her tone is no-nonsense that cuts through the panic. “Now.”
“You’re anurse. I was asking for a doctor—” Dory, the asshole, starts to whine.
“I’m the one keeping your son from spiraling,” the nurse snaps. “Out.Now. I won’t ask again, Mr. Seaborn. If you don’t leave in the next thirty seconds, I’ll call security to escort you out of the building. We both know you don’t want that to happen.”
After a heavy pause, retreating footsteps echo around the room. The door opens and closes as my parents leave. I draw a steadying breath and force myself to calm down despite how little I know about what’s going on. An eerie silence settles over the space.
A voice breaks it, softer than before, almost tentative. “Hi, Theodore.”
The melodic way she says my first name cuts through the remaining chaos inside my head. Not Teddy, the name everyone else calls me, including my parents, my teammates, and the fans chanting in the stands. JustTheodore. As if she’s speaking to a person, not a persona. For a fleeting moment, I’m not Teddy Seaborn, star winger for the Woodpeckers. I’m not the legacy son from a powerful family with country club smiles, high-society expectations, and curated reputations. I’m justme, and it’s the first realization that has felt real since I woke up to this nightmare.
“I’m Ivy Campbell,” she introduces herself. “I’m your nurse. You’re in the neurology wing at Easton General Hospital.”
“What happened?” I barely manage without my voice wavering. My mind is blank. I can’t remember anything after the start of the third period against the Beavers. Absolutely nada.
“You had a brain injury following two separate hits during a game. They performed two emergency surgeries to relieve the pressure and stop the worst of the bleeding,” she explains as gently as possible considering the current situation. “You’vebeen out of it for over seventy hours. Your body needed the rest.”
