XIII

The door opened and I turned my head hopefully, only to find myself sagging as the doctor I’d seen before strode into the room, looking stern and none too pleased. I really messed up, I thought miserably. I fidgeted nervously as he strode over to the bed and removed the chart attached to the foot of my bed and examined it without saying a word. I looked down at my fingers as they played with the hospital gown and sighed.

“Welcome back, Ms. Kitamura,” He finally said, not looking up from the chart.

“Th-thank you,” I murmured.

“That was sarcasm, Ms. Kitamura,” the doctor informed me.

“Oh. I-I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?” The doctor glanced up at me from behind his glasses and I felt like I was back in primary school.

“For not doing what you told me to do,” I whispered, folding and unfolding a section of cloth on my gown nervously.

“I thought I was relatively clear, Ms. Kitamura,” the doctor sighed. “You were to not exert yourself. You were to take a week off and come back to see me to get cleared for exercise.”

“Yes, sir,” I mumbled.

“It was less than 36 hours, Ms. Kitamura,” the doctor said disapprovingly. “Unless you work on an alternate time frame than the rest of us that seems less than the seven days I requested of you.”

“Yes, sir,” I murmured again. “Though it would be pretty neat to be able to go on a different time frame, wouldn’t it?” He fixed me with a steely gaze which caused my smile to fall. I swallowed hard, returning my eyes to my gown in shame.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” the doctor sighed, coming around to check the bandage on my forehead.

“Yes, sir.”

“Brain injury is not something you want to play around with, you know.”

“Yes, sir.” He cocked an eyebrow at me and I blushed. “I mean, no, sir.”

“No matter how important you think what you do is, it is not more important than your long term health,” he lectured.

“You’re right, sir, of course,” I murmured obediently.

“This could have very easily gone either way much worse for you,” the doctor lectured some more. “You could have paralyzed yourself, you could have suffered bleeding in your brain. You could have died, Ms. Kitamura.”

“I know, sir, I’m sorry, sir,” I said apologetically. The doctor reached down to my left wrist and lifted it slightly, peering at it, and then repeated the exam on my right wrist before looking at my neck as well.

“I am going to have someone come in to talk to you in a minute, his name is Doctor Ichikawa and he’s going to ask you some questions,” the doctor finally said, making a note on my chart. “I need you to answer them to the best of your ability. Will you do that, Ms. Kitamura?” I nodded quietly, concern tickling at the back of my mind.

Dr. Ichikawa was a tall, thin man with a pencil mustache over thick lips and a pair of round glasses framing small, beady eyes. The cold light of the hospital room glinted brightly off his balding scalp and when he smiled he seemed to have more teeth than a person should. The overall impression he gave was reptilian in nature.

“How are we today, Ms. Kitamura?” He asked; his voice far deeper than it seemed it should have been. Maybe he was part of the illuminati? I wondered. Or one of those lizard rulers I read about in a tabloid a few years prior.

“I-I’m ok, thank you,” I replied, bowing slightly at the waist from where I sat.

“I understand you had a bit of a relapse today,” Dr. Ichikawa looked through his notes as he sat on a chair beside my bed.

“I-I made a mistake. I kind of overdid it a little is all,” I replied, suddenly very frightened.

“So I have some questions for you, if you don’t mind,” he said, taking out a notepad and pen and fixing me with his beady, pig like eyes.

Please, I thought, eyes darting to the door. Please someone help. I know I messed up! I know I wrecked everything and I am so, so, so very sorry but Sachi, Mari, Yukiko…anyone. Please forgive me. Please don’t leave me here alone. I don’t like this. This isn’t right. I’m scared. Panic gripped me and I heard the blood pressure monitor beep faster in response. The door remained closed, however. No one was coming. I had ruined everything by being stupid. I sighed and returned my gaze Dr. Ichikawa.

“O-ok,” I stammered nervously.

“Please answer truthfully, Ms. Kitamura,” he admonished. “Firstly, does mental illness run in your family?”

“W-what?” I asked, taken aback.

“Has anyone in your family suffered from a mental disorder?”

“I-I don’t know,” I muttered, my memories vague, like looking at a distant object through a blizzard.

“Has anyone in your family ever committed or talked about committing suicide?” The question filled me with a horrid sense of fear. He stared at me, his face unreadable, waiting for my answer.

“I-I d-don’t remember,” I squeaked.

“Have you ever tried to commit suicide, Ms. Kitamura?” It was becoming hard to breathe; the room seemed very hot and uncomfortable. “Have you ever tried to commit suicide, Ms. Kitamura?” He repeated.

“Yes,” I whispered, lowering my eyes to my hands again.

“How many times have you tried to commit suicide?” I shrugged painfully, my conscious brain retreating in horror from his questions.

“T-two t-t-times,” I stuttered even more quietly than before, little more than an exhalation of breath.

“When was the last time?” He demanded, his tone decidedly unfriendly.

“Two years ago,” I breathed.

“Are you trying to kill yourself now, do you think, Ms. Kitamura?”

“N-no!” I exclaimed. “This was a mistake! I thought I could do it!”

“Do what, Ms. Kitamura? Commit suicide successfully?”

“No! Dance!” I insisted. “I just wanted to dance!”

“There’s a lot of pressure on performers, isn’t there?”

“I-I suppose sometimes, yes,” I admitted.

“Have you been under excessive stress recently, do you think?” His pen moved on the notepad, but his eyes never left mine.

“I-“ I began, aware now that I was sweating. “Not really more th-than usual, I think.”

“I understand you’ve suffered memory loss due to your first concussion. Did you know that memory loss can also result from psychological factors?”

“N-no,” I replied. His questions made my head hurt. They were coming fast and I felt like a fox being herded by hunters toward a trap.

“Have you ever blocked anything out to prevent yourself from remembering it?” A brown door with a bouquet of dry flowers tacked to the center of it came to my mind and my mind immediately forced the image away.

“I-I don’t know,” I whispered, retreating into myself even deeper. Don’t answer, I told myself. Don’t talk.

“What happened to your mother, Ms. Kitamura?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered.

“You don’t know? Can we call her?”

“No.” I replied, barely audibly.

“Why can’t we?” Tears were rolling down my face and my hands trembled in my lap.

“B-because,” I breathed, my heart pounded in my chest, the numbers on the machine I was hooked to climbed higher and higher as my mind rebelled against his question.

“What happened to your mother, Ms. Kitamura?” He repeated. I could hear my heart in my ears, deafening me, now.

“I don’t know,” I squeaked again, my whole body trembling, now.

“Then let’s talk about her, shall we?”

“No,” I replied flatly.

“No? You said you don’t remember so maybe talking will help you remember. Why don’t you want to talk about her?” He pressed. His eyes flicked toward the heart monitor just as the warning bell began to sound.

“I don’t know,” I whimpered under the hammering from my heart and his questions. I buried my head in my hands and sobbed brokenly. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.” I whispered over and over again, my mind not registering the nurse who rushed in.

“I think I have the answers I was looking for. Good day, Ms. Kitamura.”