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“Mr. Andrews?”
I opened my eyes as a nurse shook me with little force, reacting more to her shaking me than to the name she called me.
“Hi, there. It’s time to get you prepped for your procedure,” she said.
I must’ve grimaced because her eyes warmed, and she patted my shoulder.
“It’s going to be fine. Your aunt will be back later, and you can have visitors afterward, should everything go as planned.”
Should everything go as planned? Comforting.
But the panic in me subsided.
I’d already died. I was almost ready to go again.
It only took a day in this body to question whether I should be here or not, the weight of Ms. Andrews’ emotions dragging me down even further.
I should give up; pack it in and tell the Angel of Death that I was wrong. Tell him that I wasn’t worthy after all.
No. She’s worth it all, a voice in my head urged.
I didn’t know whoshewas anymore. But what I did know was there was an ache in my chest where she’d been. The details of her were ripped from my possession, leaving a gaping gash within me.
The ache.
And that ache was like a lantern, leading me through my blindness. If I had to live another life, I’d do it. I’d be Dexter. I’d be anyone. As long as the ache eventually subsided.
The nurse spoke once more, pulling me from my thoughts. She wore her hair in thin rope-like braids down her back, and she smelled like something tropical, something soothing. “Yesterday was quite the day. Miracles all over the hospital.” She worked at gently sitting me upright, then parked a wheelchair close to my bed.
I felt the dull pains of it, most of it numbed by the medication they’d given me periodically. “Miracles in a hospital. You’d think this was the place most miracles happen.” My voice still sounded foreign to my own ears. It carried a lower pitch than I remembered. Or thought I remembered. I cleared my throat.
“Yes, well, some days it doesn’t happen that way. Ready?”
I nodded, noticing the crease in her forehead as she transferred me to the wheelchair. I couldn’t hold back the grunt I let loose when I moved. Some pain even the medication couldn’t take away.
“Sorry about that,” she said, her eyes assessing me.
But her warms hands, they didn’t feel clinical. Not when they smoothed my hospital gown and not when they squeezed my shoulders.
“It’s not your fault.” I looked for a nametag and asked, “What’s your name?”
Her smile was brilliant and immediate, like she was eager to spread happiness. “Secilia. My friends call me Sessie.”
She stepped behind me as I repeated her name.
“Sessie. Seems fitting.”
As she started to wheel me into the hallway, she asked, “And why is that, Mr. Andrews?”
“Uh, I think my friends call me Dex.”Ms. Andrews does, anyway.I turned to smile back at her. “And Sessie fits because it sounds kinda…pleasant.”
“And you sound a lot older than you actually are, Dex.” She wheeled me into an elevator, and when the doors closed, I saw my reflection for the first time.
It seemed...familiar?The kind of familiarity I’d been experiencing frequently.
An itch I couldn’t scratch.
I shook my head, watching as long locks brushed my jaw. I had splotches of stubble coming in and my eyes were a bright blue, contrasting drastically with my otherwise dark features. “How old am I, Sessie?” I watched my reflection’s mouth move in time with mine, and I closed my eyes.
