Wake up.

A Small Accident

Slowly the world comes back into view, although it's veiled by by your own blurry eyes. The effect wears off soon, allowing you the sight of your worried parents.

"Oh, thank God!" Mom cries, leaning in to hug your weakened form.
"I'm okay, I'm okay," you assure her, although, it isn't entirely clear what you are okay -from,- nor where you are now, although the pristine white walls give you some indication.

Dad rustles your hair, smiling. "I knew you'd be alright, Son," he says. "You're in a hospital. The nurse says that you collapsed at a book store. Do you remember?"

Your mind goes back to that fateful day-- your first day of pushing-- in which you opted to push far more than you could handle. The memory is fuzzy, but it should all come back with time. When was that fateful day?

"How long have I been ****?" you ask.
"Almost a week," mom answers, in tears. "We were so worried. We came as soon as we heard the news."

You valiantly attempt to sit up straight, but, having not moved your body in a week, it's more than a little awkward. Mom places her hands on your shoulders and tells you to relax. "Just lie back and rest. You're awake now; that's what's important. Just rest. Your father and I are going to talk to the neurologist."

Neurologist. They're going to look at your brain.

"We'll be back, Son. We're going to see what kind of weird stuff is on your CT scans," your dad cracks. Mom gives a gentle elbow to the ribs.

"Don't say that! You'll worry him!" she scolds.
"He's fine!" Dad insists, his voice trailing as the pair exits the room.

For the moment, you're alone. The neurologists have already had a look at your brain, it seems. What did they see? Does your brain look any different from a regular person's brain? If the doctors see your unique brain activity and mistake it for something else, they might put you on some treatment that you don't need nor want. This doesn't bode well at all.

Such worry suddenly connects you with your mom's thoughts. You can feel her stomach sinking as she hears whatever it is that the doctor has to say. You could probably pick up the exchange if you really tried, but that's what got you here in the first place. It's as if your very mind has been bruised.

After some time, the door opens. The doctor mentions that he'll be back in a few minutes, and walks away, leaving you alone with your mother. She looks at you expectantly, concern in her glistening eyes. Whatever the neurologist showed must have spooked her terribly.

She asks,