“I needa sshower…”
I thought of the blood.
“A shower!”  The blood that had oozed steadily from the slice on the back of my head and dried into my hair like gel was still there. I could feel it crunch and flake away at my touch, and I needed it gone. There was no shower in my hospital room, and the only option was to go through the hall to the community bathroom with a metal walker because I couldn’t walk a straight line.
Halfway to the hospital showers the room flipped upside down. I threw up in the hall, directly in front of a receptionist desk.
“ABSOLUTELY NOT! What is she doing out here? Go back to your room!” I heard a nurse say to my mom.
“Lady theres bludh in mm’hair! BLUDUH! Annieddit gone!” I was talking, and the traumatic brain injury was in the driver’s seat as far as my accent.
The receptionist stared at me for a minute, shook her head, and sat back down. “Honestly, whatever.”
I sat on the floor of the shower under the faucet, watching the dark red water run down the drain, and stayed until it was pink.

Luciana, 21