CHAPTER 11
Emma,
I'm inviting you to my slumber party on Saturday. You have the right to come before the others to inflate balloons. On the other hand, you are not allowed to bring Craquinette. She stink.
Milano
Milan,
Thank you for your invitation but you have no right to ban Craquinette. It's my best friend. She's nice and she doesn't stink. It's you who stinks, first of all. I will come on Saturday before the others and with my dog.
Emma
Emma,
And bah already, Craquinette she is not nice because she bit me the last time. And I thought I was your best friend. You don't have the right to choose another because I won't change.
Milano
Dear,
I have to punish your daughter. Indeed, she spends her time sending little notes to her classmate during school hours. She must therefore copy the grammar lesson for that day three times.
The mistress
Milan,
My mom scolded me a lot yesterday. She says we have to stop chatting because the teacher thinks I'm insolent. Well, I think she's wearing a firecracker and yet I don't tell her. Would you mind helping me pick out my pajamas for Saturday night?
Emma
Emma,
I would like you to put on your Buzz Lightyear pajamas because they are the prettiest. You can take out your cuddly toy when the others are sleeping. I wouldn't tell anyone like always. And you're right, she's ugly mistress. And she stinks, like Craquinette.
Milano
Milan,
The next time you say Craquinette stinks like the mistress...
Dear,
Your daughter's insolence is ostensibly overstepping the bounds. You are therefore called for an update on Tuesday 12/10 at 5 p.m. In the meantime, I have separated her from her classmate and I ask you to remind her of the rules of life within the school.
The mistress
Milan,
I told you to leave when all I wanted was for you to stay. But you didn't hear the little girl screaming silently behind the woman who was pretending to be strong. Never mind. I guess I can only blame myself. But how can I do otherwise when this fortress that I have built so solidly takes up all the space? I miss you. I miss you when we were young.
Emma
Another day. A new sky. New clouds. And sometimes a little sunshine. But he remains shy, out of reach behind the only window in my bedroom. It looks like he doesn't really want to come into that little room, like he wants to warn me that the storm isn't over yet. I can't take my eyes off its bright rays. They seem to bring hope but it is only a decoy. They seep through the glass of my window only to accentuate the disgust I feel towards this place.
I can't stand this cracked white paint on the wall, the dust on the top of the cupboard, the wheels of my bed that squeak as soon as a nurse approaches, this carafe of water always half empty, of this stupid TV which scrolls through a whole heap of bullshit without ever stopping.
I can't stand being stuck in this bed for three days.
I can't take the smell of disinfectant any longer, these white coats touching the floor like ghosts, this anxiety that constantly roams around me, this awful food they serve me every day, the screams that sometimes resound at night and suffocate me in silence, of this armchair on which I cannot sit, of this bloody book that I cannot even reach, of these stretches that the physiotherapist makes me do every morning .
Of these stretches that I don't even feel.
Of those stretches that only remind me of my paralysis.
Of those stretches that, instead of making a little hope shine in my mind, only make more fears run through my veins.
I'm still absolutely unable to move my legs and I'm starting to feel deeply scared. What if I was stuck all my life in this shitty body that no longer serves me anything? I am unable to bear this imprisonment. I want to be fucking free!
-Concentrate Mrs. Pazzi.
-On what ? I don't feel anything.
My words hiss through the air, sharp as cleavers. This stupid physio raises his face, trying in vain to probe my gaze.
- Nothing is final. You have to cling to the slightest hope of recovery. You are the only one who can help you.
- Yeah, yeah, of course. But it's all doctor's sweet talk that moves easily on both legs. I don't feel a damn thing! Nothing at all !
My anger doesn't surprise him, he must now be used to my shitty character since he's been kicking his ass for three days.
- Mrs. Pazzi, I repeat it to you. If you don't try a minimum to work with me, I could not be useful to you. Come on, let's start again.
And the same merry-go-round starts over and over again. It stretches, relaxes then massages my legs for ages. Time trickles too slowly for my liking, so I close my eyes and let my head fall back against the awfully soft pillow. Seconds are hours. They stop at my bedside to fix the time and never let it resume its mad dash. They pearl in the heavy atmosphere of this June morning before sinking slowly, very slowly towards the minute that wisely awaits them.
Eyelids closed, I hear the incomplete beats of my heart and I think of my parents. To their heart which no longer beats and to mine which limps awkwardly. I think of their comforting arms which will no longer comfort me, of their soft voice which will no longer rock me and of their warm gaze which will no longer warm me. And I hurt and I cry and I want to find them. In rage, I wipe away the few tears that already adorn my cheeks before pulling myself together. I can't crack, not here, not in front of that stupid physiotherapist. I must understand what happened to them and bid them a final farewell. I open my eyes, determined to work with this useless carer in order to one day have the possibility of going to visit my parents on my two legs.
It is thanks to this idea that I manage to motivate myself and concentrate on the depressing exercises that I am asked to do. When the session is over, I don't see any improvement but I shouldn't dwell on this thought. I focus on remembering my parents and make a promise to myself to fight for them.
The day drags on painfully, a terrible migraine having decided to scramble my brain. A nurse with graying temples stops by my bedside to give me some tranquilizers, but they are struggling to take effect. The hours flee in a tormented fog. Semi-conscious, I recall the doctor's words: "invisible handicaps...poor balance...trouble sleeping...headaches" and just wait for the tornado in my head to calm down. It is only at the end of the afternoon that I manage to resurface.