Hospital

Stitched, bandaged, pampered in a way. Interrogated, counseled, consoled. Now alone in her bed, hospital remote in hand. Buttons for the television, for the nurse, for the bed, for the lights. She turns everything off but keeps the bed back elevated. She closes her eyes, wants to sleep but knows sleep won't come. It's quiet, still. She's tired but still too full of ideas, questions, confusion. She tries to concentrate, to focus on one thing at a time, but they all seem layered, related, cross pollenated.
If her mind were a room, her thoughts would be a floor full of clutter piled in places from floor to ceiling. But back in the far corner, something is drawing her, compelling her, beckoning her towards itself with a subtle kind of warmth. It's the one still thing in the shifting mess. She pushes aside the tangle of thoughts towards this warmth but before she's two steps in its direction, she recoils and then freezes in her tracks when she recognizes its source.
The chaos in the room presses in upon her once again but the clutter is cold and the corner is warm. And so despite all the advice against it, she leans over the side of her bed, picks up the phone and calls home.
He picks up on the third ring. "Hello?" His voice sounds so small as he says it, as if he's been hollowed out.
"Hi, baby." She hadn't intended to use a term of endearment, it just slipped out as if by accident or by reflex habit.
"Janet, I. . ." He's caught off guard. He wants to say he's sorry but the word sounds so pathetic, so inadequate, so ridiculously cliched.
Hearing his voice, she's reminded of the home, the life they've built, the comfort and the safety. Despite all that's happened tonight, despite all that's been lost, she still longs for the comfort of home.