She was sobbing. I didn't recognize the softness and despair at first, but it came apparent when the cops and social workers started in.
In a bed next to her separated by a thin curtain, my EKG machine beeped every time my heart rate dipped below 50, which happened often. I wanted it to stop so I could better hear her story. I wasn't eavesdropping or spying, I was hyper concerned and compassionate. I felt so bad for her, despite that I was the one needing the efforts of the ER staff more than she. Or so it seemed.
She had swallowed a bottle of her Mom's sleeping pills because a girl at school had been bullying her for weeks. She was crying as she tried to answer the litany of questions. I could tell she was trapped in a purgatory somewhere between truth and salvation.
I wipe mist from my eyes, reprimand myself again for being weak. My temporary neighbor was screaming for help and here I lay tethered to a machine flashing vital signs; Mine. What a selfish bastard. Let me out of here so I can go help some one with stuff way more important than my own puny and pitiful heart irregularities.
Anyone.
Up any road.
Before it's too late.
And I hear it: Is it for her or myself that I cry?
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