The doctor hesitated. "That’s not what I meant. It’s just Azalea has been under anesthesia for years. If this continues, she may develop resistance to it. What will we do then?"
"That’s your problem to solve. Just make sure her legs neither recover nor deteriorate. Keep it under control."
A beat of hesitation. Then, the doctor’s reluctant response.
"Understood."
The door creaked open and their footsteps faded down the hall.
I lay there as if I had plunged into an icy abyss.
They didn’t know.
Didn’t know that the anesthesia had long lost its effect on me.
Didn’t know that I had heard every single word.
Didn’t know that I had recorded it all.
So this was their plan all along.
They had spent five years feeding me lies, hiring a doctor from abroad just to deceive me. No wonder the so-called rehabilitation center was tucked away on the twelfth floor of the inpatient ward; it was all a carefully woven illusion.
A sharp pain lanced through my chest and silent tears slipped from the corners of my eyes.
After the "treatment," my parents cheerfully wheeled me home, warmth laced into every word and gesture as if they hadn’t just sentenced me to a life of suffering.