Music Box

Music Box

My mouth tastes like shit. The crust tears apart as I open my eyelids for what feels like the first time ever. I look to my right. Beep—beep—beep from the monitor reminding me I am still vital. I go to scratch the itchy patch on my left thigh, the patch that no longer grows hair, when I feel a sharp tug at the top of my hand. An I.V. I have always liked hospitals. They’re wonderfully lit and, more often than not, your nurse is cool. Or your doctor is hot. As if he was my muse, posing for me while I paint him with the blood beginning to re-form at the top of my head, he stands at the foot of my bed. Fucking 6’2, Dr. McDreamy. Continue Reading…