Alone, all alone, my friends have dispersed for the evening– abandoned me to walk home by my lonesome. Traversing the hideous town at nearly midnight would be enough to traumatize even the most dedicated feminists (they scream and whip around their bras, saying they're powerful, but are we seriously there yet?) I've forgotten my pepper spray and pocket knife, mostly because I accidentally cut myself with it last week and vowed never to bring it anywhere again.

        As I navigate between couples who've drunk too much and men ripping off their ties in a frenzy, I make it safely to my vehicle. Giving myself a moment to breathe, I stare at the night sky. It's a dark, lifeless, fruitless Friday evening. It's one where no stars shine. The more I contemplate that, the more scrutinizing it gets. 

        Fifteen silent minutes have passed since my friends waved goodbye, promising they'd text and call me over summer break. That dank realization slaps me so hard across the face I get chills. None of them will text me. All my electronics, from my two thousand dollar PC to my smartwatch, were confiscated and tossed over the side of a sketchy bridge into murky waters, where some diver, three billion years from now, will emerge with my Samsung QLED computer monitor that's rusted and eroded. Like a tiny child, they'll marvel at the decades-old technology. After reuniting with their dive partner, the one who found the priceless artifacts will talk. Speaking in a foreign, highly evolved, sophisticated language, they'll say (don't worry, I translated it myself), "Rich fella we have here, I'm surprised money grew on trees." The words, jumbled and distorted, come out sounding eerily familiar to that of a robot. 

        I laugh to myself as I've come up with another creative scenario from the forefront of my idiot brain. Man, am I weird? Or does this spell sanity deprivation? Shaking my head, I pull out my keys and press the plastic fob to unlock the beat-up Ford. Popping open the driver's door, I duck my head, stepping in. 

        "Stop." A voice bellows, off behind the car. Quiet but riddled with unspoken authority, as if they're disgusted with me or who I am.

        Bewildered and utterly repulsed, I manage to shift my head. "The hell? Am I finally losing it?" I reply into the air, casting this as a test to see if this is truly something to get worked up over or discredit. Praying to whatever, or how many gods are out there, I beg forgiveness for some victimless crime I've committed. 

        Their response comes delayed but thorough as they peek around the trunk. "Violet, Violet, Violet. Come here," they whisper, stretching out their finger, and I watch it twist and curl with alien-like movements. "We need to talk."

        I lunge into my car, "Like hell we do!" As fast as my shaking hands allow, I switch on the ignition. "Dammit!" I jam the plastic card over and over, to no avail. I'm stalling. It makes a heavy noise, littered with coughing (not literal, metaphorical). Brr, brr, shuck. 

        "I'm not out to hurt you, oh favored one." They coo in an almost trance-like state. They shuffle nearer, almost as if something else is controlling them. Like they're the puppet, while the puppeteer is holding the strings, with a broad smile sewed across thin lips and sunken cheeks. It's radically unnerving. "Be happy, rejoice, you're the chosen one." 

        My head hits the steering wheel, setting off the horn. "If this is a question, I kindly decline!" Sweat soaks my shirt, and the air conditioning only proves to plaster it to my shaking body. It's an unwelcome aftertaste. 

        A figure comes into my rearview mirror. Almost deformed, slouching, with extended arms scraping against the concrete. "Not a choice, not a choice, NOT A CHOICE."

        "Oh-kay! Don't shoot the special one! I'm sensitive to yelling, so please, no more!" I retaliate, kicking my foot onto the gas pedal. I'm stalling! Dammit! Now would be a handy time to have a bloody phone!

        "Sweetie, don't fight the music." The feminine voice teases almost passively. From beneath a clock as old as dirt, they smile. Salivating at the sight of me struggling. Like a maniac about to murder his prey. 

        "Stoppit!" I scream from the top of my lungs. As the situation progresses, I rip the key from the ignition and crawl into the passenger seat. Steady, steady, steady. As calm as I can, I grapple with the unlock mechanism. I'm going to beat this obsessive bitch at her own game. Swinging my legs over the cup holder, I take four deep breaths, gathering my composure. After the fourth, I jump through the door and run in a desperate plea to be free. Down a dark street, around a corner, into sight of a 24-hour Walgreens. 

        My arms pump viciously; I'm in sight of the prize. I imagine the reflecting glass doors with Walgreens smeared across them stylishly as the bright white ribbon you'd find at the end of an Olympic sprint. "Thank God! I almost redacted my religious beliefs–" 

        A tight pressure surmounts in my knee, causing it to buckle, and me along with it. Tumbling to the ground like a freak show, the atrocious figure steps on my chest, sitting there proudly. I gawk at the window twenty feet ahead, wondering if anybody can see this: the fear, the anchored disrespect, the malicious intent. 

        "If you were a track star, you'd have gotten away." She celebrates catching me as if this were a high-stakes adventure or an achievement. "But now that you're here, you must want to know why." 

        That question weighs heavier on my breasts than this woman. But my mouth doesn't move; I'm shocked and dreadfully afraid of dying. Don't kill me, don't kill me, oh God, please. 

        "This would please Aikat if he were alive," she whispers, kissing my cheek in a motherly, affectionate way, "you carrying this little present is more important than you'll ever realize." With a swift motion, she moves onto my lower half, squeezing my legs together until they're numb. She leans over my stomach, "This'll be painful, but for only a moment." She clears, smiling possessively, digging her teeth into my flesh. I writhe and squirm like a baby, scared of a needle. 

        Deeper, deeper, and deeper yet. I'm spewing blood everywhere, and only when I'm on the verge of fainting does the woman pause. Her mouth is filled with pieces of cut skin, severed veins, and arteries ripped and torn from what used to be my abdominal area. Where now lies a giant hole. She scutters to within earshot. "Sleep well, my darling; wake up full of life." Stroking my chin, I sink into her grasp. The sensation reminds me of when I was a baby and would sleep diligently for hours in my mom's arms. It's warm, like that of being swaddled in a silk blanket.

        Then, like the canvas of a prestigiously depressed college art student, everything turns into a mush of bleak colors, quietly fleeing this astral plane. I slip down, down, down– until I'm no longer conscious. The unmistakably faded hues devolve into muted, uninspired blacks. Nothing, I see nothing; I feel nothing; I am nothing. 

    ╔═══════ ೋღ 🌸 ღೋ ═══════╗

        "Ah, there she is, thank God. She's coming to!" The skeptical voice of my father rings throughout my consciousness. The inflection in tone and dynamic suggests he's been here awhile, stuck in deep thought, waiting for any opportunity to show happiness. 

        It doesn't take me long to open my eyes. An awful burst of white LED light greets me like a hurricane. Taken aback, I blink to adjust to the overwhelming stimuli and cower under the thin bedsheets. 

        "Violet! SHES AWAKE!" My little brother, Noah, shakes me violently, "We thought we'd lost you!" He nuzzles his way under my arm, hugging me. His breath trickles into my lungs, and I cough. "Sorry," he gushes, sympathetically easing up. "I don't know what came over me."        

        My belly tightens– each muscle clenching like a cramp. At first, it's manageable, nothing more than a hearty slap to the gut (though it's happening repeatedly). Then, like the mood swings of an eight-month pregnant woman, everything shifts in less than a picosecond. Boom, now my heart joins in the rhythmic torture. I'm thrashing around, searching for any position that'll guarantee a sliver of comfort. It's still too bright; if my mother would've been near, her hand would've been purple. I'm hot, too! Who turned on the furnace?! It's like I'm stomping through the desert in a winter coat. God help me, man, please. I grip the hospital gown and stretch it sideways, pulling, pulling, pulling with all my might. 

        Dad intervenes, gently removing my hands. "Honey, this isn't home; you can't strip." He pats my shoulder, "Hopefully, once you're all fixed up, we can go out to that ice cream parlor you love." 

        Ice cream? Why was he bribing me with sweet treats? Was he delusional? Millions of questions swirled my mind, and zero answers. None, none, NONE! I squint, looking for my mom and clawing her. I groan in self-pity, tears forming on the ridges of my eyelids. My body was vibrating, and I don't know what from. Something wasn't right– something seriously wasn't right. 

        "Sweetheart, it's okay. I know you're in pain. I'll go ask the nurse if they can increase the morphine." She peels my sweaty, pulsating fingers from her, smiling, albeit I can't quite tell in what way. Mom wipes her hand on her pant leg, straightening the hem of her wrinkled blouse. "Noah, do whatever she needs while I'm gone," I watch her sigh and storm into the hall like a business professional. 

        "Yes, ma'am," Noah grunts with no hint of complaining. After a brief hiatus, he's seated beside me, glaring confused at my face. "Man, I'd give anything to know what happened that night," –he facepalms dramatically– "You gave us, gave me, a stupid scare; you better apologize." 

        Thankfully, while my mind was off the fact that my body was humming, I became aware of how tired and skinny Noah looked. 

        Typical younger siblings: act all tough and mean until you, the elder sibling, are face to face with death. "Hey..." My voice doesn't seem like mine, but after taking a reassuring inhale of fresh, cold air, I stagger through my sentence. "I-It's s-so g-good to s-see you," for some god-forsaken reason, my throat's on fire like I've just swallowed a mouthful of  Mad Dog Plutonium (hot sauce). 

        "Yeah, I know, sis," Noah clasps my hands, "Though, I'm surprised you're up and alert. You've just undergone extensive surgery to reconstruct the walls of your stomach and to repair your bladder. It's been three weeks since that night. They put you into a medically induced coma." 

        What? Three weeks? How is that possible? To me, all this took place last night. It's as fresh as filtered water in my brain. Now I'm seriously panicking. 

        If I could, I'd love to disappear into an alternate reality so I could restart. But, from the looks of things, God didn't want me to or whoever was watching over me from above. I had to deal with all the repercussions of my deranged behavior here and now. 

        "Violet, the nurse said she'll be right in," my mom rejoices, going to join my dad on the ventilator cover. "But...!" 

        Dad brings her in, putting his arm firmly around her slouching shoulder. "Oh, don't say anything. Enjoy our eldest's presence." 

        "Look who's the party pooper now," she snuggles closer. "This is relieving! I can finally work on removing these crow's feet; they make me seem middle-aged." Whenever my mother pouts, you know she's in an otherworldly mood, almost as if God touched and praised her, saying, "It is good." 

        Dad, caressing her cheek, scoffs at Mom's choice of language. "Well, sorry to spoil you're mindless rejuvenation, but we are old." 

        "Yeah, I mean, look at our kids, practically adults." Her eyes drop on me, and warmth spills into each of my throbbing appendages. "Violet, our little Viola, is an adult."

        "True." Dad shifts soberly, putting his head on the wall. "Far from perfect though, I could ramble on and on..." 

        Mom laughs until tears come forth, "Viola isn't perfect?" She breaks out again, leaning forward onto her hands, wiping off the happy waterworks. "David, say that to the man in the mirror!" 

        It's nice; this is truly wonderful to watch. Those two getting along makes me happy. Just for a moment, a split second occurs before my mindset reverts to the emotional heft of these people sitting around me, this family. They've rejected me for years and seated me on the sidelines while Noah was shrouded in gifts. Like I'm some a joke; ugh, a jester. I'm the friend nobody wants to invite to the party but does so they have an excuse to talk to the attractive brother. 

        Before I've even thought of what to say next, the cramping of my abdominal muscles interrupts me. Nurse, where are you? A fire erupts in my belly, laying the groundwork for me to move onto my side. That doesn't work, so I flip around. Even worse, it's like my stomach is about to explode! I sit up, betting my whole deck of cards on this one maneuver. If this fails– then it's going to be a long evening. 

        Mom notices my battle first as she breaks free from Dad, who quickly rises to join her by my side. "Geez, these nurses sure are getting paid a lot to be late," she groans in a husky tone, taking my freezing hand. She traces the unique lines on my palm, attempting to get my mind off the antagonizing agony of my bloated gut. "Say, honey, doesn't she seem chilly?" 

        Dad moves closer, his round emerald eyes scanning over me with indecision. He clutches my pinky tightly, then drops it, "Yeah, is that bad?" 

        "I think we should call for the doctor." She stares down the side of the reclining hospital mattress. "Where was it located again?" 

        "Righhht here," Dad says, pressing it. A little alarm beeps, and within moments, footsteps are thundering down the hall as if in a hurry. The shadow outside the door frame gets wider, thicker, and taller. 

        Tightly bound braids bounce frivolously as a brown woman with a lavish white coat comes and sits. She spins over to me on a rolling stool. As she smiles gingerly, her cherubic cheeks form a pair of adorable dimples. "Sorry," she chirps, ashamed, "I have a lot of rounds to make 'ya know." She stares behind me, checking my vitals, "What seems to be the problem, mate?" 

        That makes sense. The light accent, sprinkled with words not commonly used by full-blown Americans (not generalizing, just saying how it usually is). The doctor is Australian, which explains the accent. "My stomach," I huff, grinding my teeth. "It... keeps getting annoyed at me every few minutes. Could you tell me what happened, please?" I can't retain eye contact. She seems like the type who'd judge a book by its cover (I don't mean that in an offensive way). 

        "Well, of course!" She momentarily glanced at my parents, who nodded in approval of something. "First, let me introduce myself, I'm your primary doctor, Adelaide Montreal." She places her hand on my outrageously distended midsection. "And you just had surgery. Before you get all frightened, let me explain," –she inhales– "You came in with large chunks of your abdominal wall gone. Your vital organs, your liver and pancreas, were mangled."

        I cover my mouth. I'm trembling from head to toe. That woman from last night had violated me– I might be dead if things had progressed further. "Mangled...?" I whisper, tasting how awful my breath is. Embarrassed and dreadfully under a heap of shock, I laugh subtly. 

        Miss Adelaide arches her eyebrows at my unusual response. "Did I say something funny?" She feels around the different parts of my abdomen while asking: does this hurt?

        "Yes," I sheepishly blushed, planting my hands so she wouldn't continue. "What's wrong with me?" 

        "Inflammation," Miss Adelaide assures, shaking her head. "Though, we're testing to see if anything else is happening. When you came in, there seemed to be a fungus attached to your uterine wall." She runs her hands softly across the top portion of my belly. "We couldn't do anything about it since you needed immediate attention to other parts." Miss Adelaide's expression reeks of seriousness. She presses her hands into a triangle and slowly rotates in her chair, eyes narrowing. Squeak, squawk, squeak. "I'll have more answers for you in the morning, but bloody hell, you're one strong woman." 

        The compliment never registered, as the thought of growing a fungus outweighed it. Is this a pregnancy? I don't know what to call this. I have no idea what is wrong with me. The one thing I do know is that the woman from earlier was correct. I'm full of life.