Vivace // Otayuri

18

  Three weeks have passed already. Three weeks devoid of ice skating. Three weeks of being attached to machinery with endless wires. Three weeks of hearing my heart rate interrupting the music in my headphones. Three weeks of suddenly having laboratory-made substances coursing through my veins to kill off the rampant immunity cells.
  After sitting in a hospital room for three weeks, I looked quite different. My unkempt hair was no longer brushed back. Instead, it fell to the tips of my eyelashes.
  I shivered. I wish I had a scarf to pull over my face.
  A nurse walked in. "Your face is reddish again, let me check your temperature," she said.
  She brushed my hair back from my face and ran an electric temperature sensor over my forehead. You know, the new thermometers they use nowadays.
  The small device beeped. "Yeah, you have a fever again. It's not too bad."
  I apologized for the inconvenience.
  "What inconvenience? This is my job." She left the room, leaving me to a heartbeat-filled near-silence.
  I looked down at my clasped hands and twiddled my thumbs. I decided to eliminate some of the silence. In my head, of course.
  I picked up my phone and plugged in the headphones. I selected a Russian symphony and set it on repeat. I had left my copy of The Arabian Nights at home, but Scheherazade was just as good.
  As the first movement began, I looked out the window at the thunderstorm outside.