Chapter 33
Hanna
My head feels muffled, yet I'm aware of the insistent throbbing. But that's not what worries me. It's the cast enveloping my forearm.
I wish I could slap myself. What the hell got into me that I threw all safety concerns out the window like that?
It was clear that something would happen, I hear my mother's worried voice in my head.You need to take better care of yourself. Better safe than sorry. Have you forgotten that already?
In my imagination, I see her looking at me intently. Tears well up in her eyes, and I feel ashamed for causing her such distress. To rid myself of this awful feeling, I let my gaze wander through the treatment room in the present moment.
I'm alone. The doctor who tended to my scrapes and casted my arm disappeared long ago. So has Vico, after apologizing to me countless times, even though it wasn't his fault at all.
Breathing heavily, I touch the smooth surface of the cast. I should have called Florian by now to inform him about my accident. After all, he's my partner. He deserves to know if something happens to me.
Yet I haven't even taken my phone from the backpack sitting next to my treatment chair. It could have been damaged in the fall, but it wasn't. Vico triple-checked it to ensure I could safely call him to pick me up once I'm done here.
Why am I hesitating?
I have to do it. I have to inform Florian. Instead, I keep imagining how he’ll react to my call.
Worried? Upset? Maybe even both?
Even if he were disappointed, he would have every right to be. Riding the Vespa was a huge mistake. Not only did I jeopardize my health, but the cast also limits my ability to function fully. The doctor told me I have to wear it for at least four weeks.
Four weeks! How am I going to manage that?
Exactly, that's what Florian will ask. And I won't have an answer for him. What could I possibly say? That I forgot about myself and everything that should matter to me while he's busting his ass at home to secure a safe future for us?
My situation couldn't be more apparent. With each step I've taken here in Tuscany, I've dug myself deeper.
Dammit.
Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.
"Hanna Lackner?"
A gray-haired lady in a white lab coat stands before me. In her hand, she holds a medical file, and her loosely tied hair frames a pair of glasses. The golden glasses chain sways gently beside her cheeks.
I sit up. "Can I be discharged?"
"First, I have a few questions," she replies, pulling a white-covered stool closer and opening the file with my data. I notice a questionnaire. "Can you tell me how the accident happened?"
I try to think about her question, but I can only recall a few fragments of memories. The road was completely flat. No curves.No dirt on the pavement. But there was something else. "I saw glowing dots, as if sunlight was passing through a lens."
She checks a box on her form. "Do you often experience headaches?"
How does she know that? "Migraines," I confirm. "But I've had them my whole life."
As if I gave her the exact answer she wanted, she nods knowingly. "What about perception disturbances?"
What does she mean?
Apparently noticing my puzzled expression, she starts to explain. "Do you sometimes see things blurred? Or hear high-pitched sounds?"
Restlessness begins to rise within me. I don't like this interrogation. And even less the fact that her questions are so precise. "What does that have to do with my broken arm?"
"Nothing." She shrugs. "But it could have something to do with your accident."
