I’m not exactly a fan of hospitals. I can do whatever I want and take control of my life until I’m admitted into that building. There’s always the fear of something going wrong. You’ve all heard stories, I’m sure. Even though hospitals are the one fear I have, I’m just lucky enough to be there constantly. I was born with Osteogenesis Imperfecta, or brittle bone disease if you wanna keep it simple.

I’m a bit of a klutz, so I’m always ending up with a new fracture somewhere. I’ve had to call 911 so frequently the operators know me by name by now. I dreaded every visit, typically with the pain of a broken arm or leg or whatever, coupled with my fears playing with me and causing me an anxiety attack. While I was a bit stressed, the doctors and nurse became a bit calmer with my visits. They no longer became stressed or upset each time I came in, but a bit more complacent, greeting me with phrases such as:

“Back again, Mr. Tucker?” and, “Is that you, Liam?”

I’m in right now for a broken leg and arm because I had accidently rolled out of bed. I find this specific visit to be strange. I still felt the sharp pain, and was still upset, but the fear was gone. I was rather calm, even… happy to be there. I had become completely ignorant to my previous fear of this place that I have had all of my life. I enjoyed every moment I was with the doctors and nurses. I sit in my bed and blissfully I think about what will happen next. For the first time in my life I was taken aback, and sad, when I heard the nurse tell me I was free to go.

“What?” I choked out, knowing full well I couldn’t enjoy this visit anymore.

“You’re ready to leave, Liam,” the nurse said with a cute smile. She couldn’t seem to tell I was sad about my leaving. My sadness turned into mild anger. I finally warmed up to the place and they make me leave? I got up and the nurse wheel-chaired me out, and my parents were nice enough to take me to my apartment. I simply sat on my couch, watching the news, reflecting on my time there.

I knew I wanted to go back. I wanted to feel the same kind of happiness, in a place I used to hate and dread. I could just visit, but I couldn’t stay. Even if I broke another bone, I wouldn’t stay for long. I knew something drastic would have to happen if I wanted to go back. My eyes darted about the room while I tried to figure out how to go about this. I knew what to do next. I went into my kitchen, and opened my utensil drawer.

I pulled out a knife and stared at it. I thought about what I was doing. I knew I would be tried for insanity and put in a padded room for almost the rest of my life.

‘It would be hard for me to go back that way,’ I thought, ‘So why not make the visit last longer?’ I also pulled out a spoon and a fork to use with my knife.

“Which one to use first?”

I decide to use the fork first.

I jab the fork down at my wrists, one after the other. I feel the pain. I see the blood flow from my open wound and cover the dull metal of the fork. My lips twist into a perverted smile. The coppery smell of the blood hits my nose. Saving the knife for last, I choose the spoon next. I carefully insert the spoon into my eye socket. The cool feeling of the spoon on my eyeball overshadows the pain.

I tear the spoon out of the socket, my eye coming along with it. I can feel the blood vessels and nerves straining to keep my eye. I begin to get excited. I’m going back! “One final touch!” I exclaim. I pick up the knife. I stab myself in the chest. I let out a cry of pain this time, but nonetheless I’m still grinning. I tear the knife out and a splash of blood comes from the wound. I thrust the knife into my heart, but I leave it in my chest this time.

“That’s enough,” I choke. I can taste the coppery blood on my tongue. I pull out my cell phone and call 911.

“911, what’s your emergency?” I respond with my last bit of strength.

“It’s Liam. You know what to do.”