A New Kind Of Walk

It has already been two entire weeks since I came back to school. Still, every day is the same as the first. The hallways stretch longer. I keep expecting a door that never comes. Sometimes I wonder if there was really any door to begin with. Some trick my memory plays on me. It starts to feel normal that the hallway never ends. Right as the thought plays across my mind, my hands press on cool glass. Surprise infects me as I feel for the door handle. If only it came moments sooner, that sick feeling in my stomach wouldn't be there. I catch that feeling everyday, like I have lost my memory along with my eyesight.

The students are different than before the accident. Of course they are. Nearly everybody knows me. Let me rephrase that. Nearly everybody knew me. Now, instead of obnoxious voices trying to talk over the increasing amount of chatter, my former friends and acquaintances speak in quiet whispers. Expecting to keep their opinions and pity inside their own groups. They can't. I have to suffer walking through the crowd, quiet to everyone else. I hear every single comment, like they are next to me speaking softly into my ear. I know better. They don't. That's why I don't blame them.

I remember what it was like in the hospital. Learning to walk without seeing what was in front of me. Discovering how to use my other senses like never before. I could hear every shuffled step I took. Making sure that my feet were the first to hit something, if that's what it came to. I could feel the cold air on my out stretched arms from the overly used air conditioner. Smell the hand sanitizer thickly coated on hands of patients and doctors alike, who walk swiftly by me. Eventually, I found I could hear sounds from rooms farther away. Calm voices of encouragement, soft sobs, television news reporters, and even the high-pitched voice of SpongeBob Square pants in some rooms. There are some things I still feel that I wish I didn't. Like the itchiness of the bandages on my eyes. Sometimes I wonder if they ever took them off. I am still constantly skimming my fingers across my eyelids to make sure.

I developed a skill in the hospital. Weaving around people and objects like I could actually see them. At school I don't have the chance to use that skill. Back in the hospital I felt proud. Here I feel tiny most of the time. The students keep their distance, like I have some sort of disease they might catch. Other times I feel too big. When I'm tripping on the uneven floor. I wonder why I don't remember the spots I trip on. Maybe it's because I'm too focused on the "not so secret" secrets that float by my head.