One
My body aches all over. My lip stings. Waves of pain that wrack my body leave tears streaming down my swollen, bloody, bruised face. My dad did this to me. I limp down the quiet road, with my blue backpack over my shoulder. I had to get away from his abusive ways. The backpack holds a change of clothes, my toothbrush, toothpaste, and my hairbrush. I have trouble with even that weight, which isn’t very heavy. Headlights appear in the far distance. I’m not awake to see them come any closer. I collapse on the side of the road in a crumpled heap.
I wake to the loud, continuous beeping of a hospital machine. A small groan escapes my lips, and I wince as I open my eyes. It was like I was seeing everything through a window, and for a second I thought I was wearing those goggles with the tiny eyeholes. But then I realize that my eyes are nearly swollen shut. I see a doctor peering at me through my tunnel-like sight.
“Jade Lily?” he asks, adjusting his wire-framed glasses on his nose. I try to say, “Yeah”, but instead it comes out as nonsense. I’ve always hated my name. I mean, Jade was fine. But I hate my last name. ‘Lily’ is just ridiculous. It’s supposed to be a first name!
“Very good!” the doctor says, and tells someone out of sight to “come on in”. A lady with auburn hair in a tight bun and wearing a pink thigh-length dress with a matching pink overcoat walks in. She clears, her throat, adjusts her wire-frame glasses on her small nose.
“Hello, honey,” she says, her voice heavily accented. She must be from the south. “How do you feel?”
“Like crap,” I grumble.
“Yeah, you were pretty beat up when we found you. A couple cracked ribs, a sprained ankle, and you had bruises all over.” She brushes a stray piece of my black hair off my forehead. “We’re gettin’ you a foster home, though. You’ll get better. Go to school, have friends…”
“Wait, a foster home?” I ask, blinking. The tunnel-like vision clears. An illusion after all.
“Yes, honey. We found your dad and went to his trailer. I can see now why you ran away. Plus with him beatin’ you and all…” she trails off, studying my face.
“How’d you know?” My lips still stings, and it hurts as I talk. But I have so many questions. She smiles.
“I didn’t. But your reactions confirmed my suspicions. After that guy found you on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, all beat up, I put two-and-two together.” She sighs. “I’m Miss Jones, by the way. I’m your social worker.”
“Have you…” I pause, thinking if I even want a foster home. I know I can’t go back to my dad’s trailer. “Have you found a place?”
“Well, actually, honey,” Miss Jones begins, “the nice man who found you has offered to foster you. He’s certified and all. He’s got a son and a daughter, and his nephew has been living with them for quite a while.”
“When… when will I go there?” I ask, sucking on my split lip. It tastes like blood.
“In a few days. Don’t worry, honey.” She smiles sweetly and turns to leave.
“That soon?” I blurt. She turns back to me.
“Why, yes, honey. You’ve been out for three days!”
Realistic Fiction
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Your short story was really interesting. I felt so much emotion when your main character was running away from home and I was so happy when she fell into the right hands. I do suggest making the main character’s coma a little more realistic. I think if you had her wake up 12 hours after her incident–to show how tired she was–then have her rest a little before the social worker comes in and talks to her. Also, give us an age for your character. However, this is only a suggestion, your story was great!
Thank you so much for your feedback! I will take your suggestions to mind, adn try to make the appropriate changes in my story. Her age will be revealed later in the story. I’m ecstatic that you enjoyed my story!