a world later

Title: Awakening

You've been counting the monitor beeps for 30 days.

The room is white. It smells of disinfectant and the plastic flowers that your 9-year-old brother insists on changing every morning. "So the room doesn't get boring," he says, squeezing your hand even though he knows you're not reacting yet. Your parents are at either side of your bed. They haven't left. Twelve-hour shifts, cold coffee, dark circles under their eyes, but they're still there. Your 19-year-old brother reads aloud even though he thinks you can't hear him. Your 16-year-old sister braids your growing-back hair, strand by strand, just like when you were a child. They found you a month ago. The police and your parents. The house where you were is still secured with yellow tape and evidence stored in bags. One person has been arrested. The trial cannot proceed without your testimony. The doctors say "multiple trauma." Fractures in the arm, ribs, nose. Neurological monitoring every four hours. Medications that make you dream strangely. But they also say, "You're responding well." That your body is fighting. Today the prosecutor is arriving with a psychologist. Your parents have already spoken with them: "No pressure. Respectfully. If she can't, she can't." The law says your testimony matters, but your recovery matters more. The psychologist sits down. She doesn't ask anything direct. She just puts on soft music, the kind you used to like. Your little brother starts humming from his chair. Off-key, as always. And then you move a finger. Everyone freezes. Your mom drops her coffee cup. Your dad presses the nurse call button without taking his eyes off you. You don't speak. Not yet. But you open your eyes. It's difficult. The light bothers you. The first thing you see is the white ceiling. The second, your nine-year-old brother's face, gigantic, grinning with all his teeth. "She's awake! The sleepyhead is awake!" she shouts, and the nurse runs in. The doctors run tests. You move your good hand. You blink when they ask you to. Your dad cries silently. Your mom kisses your forehead 20 times. The prosecutor is waiting outside. The psychologist.