This choice: You spot 'Get Well Soon' cards on the bedside table. • Go Back...Chapter #6Get Well Soon by: Guyman   You reach an appraising hand underneath your right breast, lifting it up in your hand. A wince goes across your face, not because of any pain or pleasure, but at the weight of the... no, your breast. It's soft, yet squeezing it sends an unfamiliar jolt shoots through your body.
You're interrupted by the wheedling voice of the doctor.
"Miss Esposit— ah, no Miss....ter Connors."
Surprised, you let your tit drop with a small slap against your chest. God, you have to look up at him now!
"I'd like to explain some of the complications of the surgery to you. You see, I managed to extract your cerebellum and transplant it into another victim of the accident. However, most of her brain is still intact, so..."
He gestures to some charts he had brought in, obviously enthralled with his own genius, and his voice slowly fades into static to you. You instead took notice of a few cards resting on your bedside.
You pick one up, the doctor caught up too much in his own speech to pay attention to you. The card is the store-bought variety, the words 'Get Well Soon' on the front with colourful text. You flip it open, reading the inside:
Dear Ms. Esposito,
School isn't the same without you around.
The substitute just reads off the textbook and gives us pages to read — he can barely conjugate a verb.
Remember when we celebrated the Day of the Dead?
When you get back, we can throw that party again
Please get well soon,
The rest of the card has various signatures littered all over. You focus in on a specific one, with the same handwriting as the message. Brandy Carwell. You remember her faintly, one of the more... prominent members of the cheerleading squad. The subject of hundreds of 'Fuck, Marry, Kill' games between you and your friend Randall, always managing to land in the first two categories. You didn't peg her for a teacher's pet.
But more memories springs unbidden to your mind. You were talking with her about her grades, when she burst into tears. In between sobs, she talks about all the remarks she could hear behind her back. 'Slut... Whore... Bimbo...' You comforted her with a hug, a wry smile on your face — it seemed that boys haven't changed since you were a kid. You regularly gave her advice after that, both on how to get through school life, and rarely, help with Spanish.
Shocked, you let the card float to the ground. Maybe you should have listened to the doctor.   indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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