I watched her. Her whole world was the moaning figure on the floor; she didn't even glance at the blood seeping from my head. I wanted to ask her—is anything he does can be forgiven because he's "sick"? Am I always meant to be the sacrificial one, the one expected to understand?
Before I could say a word, a ripping pain exploded through my skull, as if something inside had detonated. The room spun, lights smeared into streaks, and I blacked out.
...
When I woke up, the first thing that hit me was the sting of disinfectant—cold and clinical in my nostrils. I forced my heavy eyelids open; blurred shapes resolved into the hospital ward's bland white ceiling. A man in a white coat stood at the bedside, looking down at the medical record folder in his hand.
"You're awake," he said, then came closer and checked the bandage on my head. "How do you feel?"
He examined my head, then looked up. "You have a mild concussion and a skin laceration on your forehead. You need five stitches." He gave a small, professional half-smile. "You were lucky. The glass fragments didn't hit any vital areas."