...Here’s the thing, when I died I didn’t see a great light, my favorite memories flash before my eyes, or anything earth-shatteringly cliche like that. What I saw, well, I don’t really remember. Truth be told, the whole thing is a little fuzzy. I get bits and pieces, but most of what I know about the whole ordeal comes from what my family has told me. Simply, one day my heart just stopped beating. I was in English class, like any other Tuesday. I felt the corners of my mouth turn up as I admired Mrs. Merlyn's one yellow wall. Though it was littered with tons of inspirational quotes, photos of famous authors, and pages of books you could still see the sunny, lemon paint underneath. It was like the color refused to be drowned out by all the chaos, and instead built upon it. A perfect metaphor for a happy existence--appreciating the imperfections, letting them be a strength rather than a weakness. Maybe I was crazy for thinking a wall could mean so much, I preferred to believe I was a keen observer that saw what others didn’t take the time to see. Brought back to the present by the deep voice of the audiobook Mrs. Merlyn played as she graded the test she had forgotten to look over this past weekend, I heard the not-so-soft voice of Olivia Dunham behind me, telling her friend Margaret about her “puke-worthy” first date with some guy she had met at a club a week prior. I rolled my eyes. Girls. Why were they all so dramatic? Then nothing. Apparently, this was the point in time my lifeless body fell out of the sad wooden excuse for a desk and onto the dirty classroom floor. I think that’s called irony. Anyway, after waking up from that traumatizing experience in the E.R., I found myself in a hospital room. It was standard as far as hospital rooms go. There was a bed, a old, crappy tv, an uncomfortable-looking chair, two doors, and bland, beige walls. At first, I was thoroughly confused. Was that nightmare not a nightmare at all? Why was I in the hospital? What the hell happened? Where was the bathroom because I really needed to pee? Before I had the chance to get my mind together, one of the doors opened, and an ebony face popped out from the other side.
“Well, look who is awake, the walking dead,” said a rich voice tinted with a bit of laughter.
“Hi,” I tried to say, but it sounded a bit weak, which worried me.
He stepped into the tiny space, and I got a better look at him. Dressed in scrubs, he had a shaved head, high cheekbones, and deep chocolate brown eyes that seemed to know things I’d never understand. His pearly-whites were on full display, offering warmth and cheer at an otherwise frightening time.
“Don’t talk too much. You are still recovering. Nice to meet you though, I’m Darren,” he grabbed the clipboard at the end of my bed, “I’ll be your nurse until eight. If you need me, click that button to your left. I’ll take your vitals, answer any questions you may have, and unless you need me, you won’t see me for another half-hour.”
I nodded my head.
Darren did his thing, fast and efficient, but gently as though not to hurt my fragile state. I asked him what had happened to me, and he explained it calmy.
“I can’t tell you much. All that I know is that when the ambulance arrived, they thought you were dead. They couldn’t find your pulse. They tried reviving your heart, and it seemed to work, but your heartbeat was still weak. Dr. Karver’s the specialist. He told your parents that he didn’t know what was wrong, but that something needed to be fixed. That kind of stuff doesn’t just happen, you know. Anyway, they ran a few tests. Apparently you had coronary artery abnormalities. They took you into surgery and fixed you right up. A damn miracle if you ask me,” he down looked at me and smiled again, “Excuse my french.”
I gave him two thumbs up and a smirk. He then took off his gloves and patted my head. When his hand made contact with my hair everything turned to black.
