Multiple bandages covered my face—one stretching thick and white across my forehead, another patched over my left eye, a few more dotting my cheek and jaw. I could feel stitches pulling at the corner of my eye, tight and itchy. I was wearing a stiff, too-clean hospital gown with faded blue and white stripes.
I didn't remember putting it on.
A cold twist of unease stirred in my gut. Who changed me? Did they see the marks?
Even after all this time, I still felt embarrassed by them—by the raw evidence of what I was. Of what I'd been through. Of what I still might be going through.
"You can't be out of bed yet!" a nurse gasped as I swung my legs over the edge of the bed. She rushed over, placing warm but firm hands on my shoulders and gently pushed me back down. "Please stay put."
