Not a lot of people enter my room the next day, and after that and after that and after that. One man always comes in during the mornings, though. He is a doctor, I think, because he's always carrying a stethoscope and touching my chest with it. I am always uncomfortable, because he puts too much pressure on my heart, but what do I know. Then there's this lady who goes through the room everyday, and it makes me think why didn't they put me in another room if someone else was using this? The lady has black hair, and I think she may be Chinese or Japanese, but I never hear her say anything, even though I don't say anything in the first place.

I always try to hold my breath when the lady comes in and let it out when it's the man. It's easier that way, because then the lady doesn't start to stare at you, and the man doesn't start murmuring and writing things down. All the fuss hurts my head, and since nobody knows the thump that goes on inside except me, I have to take care of it myself. Sometimes you have to push others out before you get better.

I see the other lady around, the one who was looking down on me when I woke up. She likes to touch me a lot. My hair, my face, my arm, anywhere. Everyday she says she loves me, enough to make me think she doesn't really at all. Like she says it over and over to convince herself.

The man said her name was Buttercup. How strange. His own name is George. How not so strange. He comes in every once in a while. The doctor asks me about them a lot, if they treat me well or not. I don't really answer. Not because George and Buttercup are mean, but because I don't know. I've been in this room for so long now that the only thing I really know is the groove pattern on the walls, and even though they visit me, they don't stay very long.

Buttercup enters my room now, holding a tray. "Abby," she calls out, a hopeful smile on her lips. "You awake, honey?" I don't answer, just breathe deeply. The bandages have come off my head, so I don't feel like I'm always thinking too hard. I don't know what my forehead looks like.

Buttercup touches my shoulder gently, and I force myself to stay still, to not flinch and jerk away. She isn't mean. I don't know why I do it. I don't want to know. I don't want to eat, either, because I'm not hungry. "Must be sleeping, then," she says softly when I don't move, and then she puts it by my bed before whispering she loves me and shuffling out of the room. A minute later, there is a muffled vroom, and then quietness again.

I lie on the bed, still breathing like last time, except now my world is going back and forth, back and forth between the window and the table dresser. Buttercup and George and the doctor and the lady still think I don't move much. It's not true. I get up to look at the window sometimes, and it looks bare. Nothing. Empty just like my head.

I stand up and take the bowl of soup. It is still warm, and it smells like warmth and home and comfort. Is that what chicken soup is supposed to be like? It doesn't make me feel better at all. I feel sick to my stomach now, so I open the window and pour the contents out.

I don't feel so bad now.


A/N: I'm editing Quattrocentista as we speak.

P.S. Written: Thanks for reviewing the story. I'm sorry I haven't PM-ed you in a while. AP government, calculus, and English hit me in one week, and I feel like a trauma patient, LOLOL. I am in pain :(