Serena
The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was a white ceiling. For a second, I didn't know where I was. My vision felt blurry, and my head felt like someone had placed a rock on it. I blinked slowly, trying to clear my sight.
Then the smell hit me—disinfectant. It smelt eerily familiar. The day my mom died, I'd been in the hospital with my dad and that was where my dislike for hospitals started. I hated the smell and the look on a doctor's face when he drops the unfortunate news to the family members of the deceased.
Then the slow reality of where I was hit me fully. I was in a hospital.
I turned my head, and there was an IV line in my arm. A heart monitor beside me. A drip stand. Those long white curtains that hospitals use.
My mind tried to remember what happened to me.
Why was I in a hospital?
