Murmurs of a voice echo in my ear but I couldn’t figure out who. My heavy eyelids twitch as they sluggishly fold open. When the bright light from the ceiling hits my eyes, I quickly shut them close again. Then a calloused hand rubs my forehead down to my hair repeatedly. For the second time, I force myself to open my eyes and in front of me is my mother’s worried façade.
“How are you feeling?” she asks.
“I feel better now. Sorry to make you worry,” I respond with a soft and weak voice.
She nods then helps me take a seat. I look around, trying to verify where am I. White walls, a sofa across the bed where I’m sitting, an apparatus on my left and a table with a basket of assorted fruits on my right.
“Where is this?”
“St. Luke’s Hospital,” mother replies as she takes an orange and peels
